Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When the blaring sound of his phone pulled Greg out of sleep, he wondered (not for the first time) why, exactly, he’d thought being a police officer sounded like fun to him. He considered letting it go to voicemail, but after a split second of entertaining the thought, rolled over and picked up his mobile from the bedside table.

“Lestrade,” he answered with a sigh, and winced at the gravelly, rough sound of his voice.

“Hey boss,” Donovan greeted from the other end of the line. “We’ve got a case.”

“Isn’t it supposed to be my day off?” There was a guilty pause, and with another sigh Greg ran a hand through his hair and began getting out of bed. “Where is it?”

“Kings Cross.”

“Wonderful. Have they closed it down?”

“The platform and the line, yeah.”

Greg rubbed his eyes and got up, walking towards his closet. “Okay. See you there.”

Kings Cross Station at 5:30 in the morning was quieter than usual, but there was still a good amount of people in the station, from people in business suits walking determinedly to their platform and others in what was probably the last outfit from their suitcases straggling back from winter holiday.

Lestrade hadn’t gotten a winter holiday. Hell, he hadn't even gotten a post-winter holiday day off. But, it is what it is, he thought to himself as he ducked under the yellow crime scene tape on Platform Nine. Donovan was standing nearby, her arms crossed as she watched the forensics team work.

“What have we got, Donovan?” he asked wearily.

“Guv,” she greeted, and looked down at her notebook. “White female, late twenties to early thirties. Body discovered by a security guard just after opening. Dressed in black halter top and skirt with high-heeled boots. Cause of death- well, it’s pretty obvious when you see it.”

Greg gave a nod of thanks, and walked over to the bench where the body sat, slumped in on itself. Her blonde hair obscured her face, but a glance at her torso showed rips in her shirt; under that, Lestrade could make out the stab wounds. The black of her clothing helped make the blood less noticeable, but with a step in a different direction, he could see that the material was shiny with it.

“Wilson,” Greg called to the head of forensics. “Have your crew found anything?”

Wilson made his way over to Lestrade, his weight making his body sway with each step. The man had grown rotund as the years had gone on, but Lestrade had known him since being promoted to DI, and he did good work. “Not a thing,” Wilson admitted, pushing up his glasses. “Leastwise, not yet. No fingerprints, not fibres. They may be able to find something at the morgue but…” he trailed off.

“I bet she was a prostitute,” jumped in one of the assistants, a gleeful expression on his face. Greg couldn’t remember his name, though he’d seen the weasel-like man around before. “And she was killed in revenge by a jealous spouse.”

Wilson gave the man an annoyed look. “Anderson, aren’t you supposed to be digging through the trash bins?”

Anderson opened his mouth to object, but at a fierce glare from Wilson, slunk off frowning. Wilson sighed, and Lestrade clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“I hear ya, mate,” he agreed.

Their moment of commiseration was broken by Donovan, who was yelling at someone. “No, you can’t bloody well just stroll into a crime scene, you freak! Piss off!”

Greg turned, eyebrows lowered in confusion. “What the….” A tall, skinny man in a coat that seemed to hang off his frame like a cloak from a fairytale was standing by the tape, a vaguely dissatisfied look on his face. Donovan, in comparison, looked as if she was about ready to smack the man.

Quickly, Lestrade jogged over to them. It would be just my luck, to have a brawl start at my crime scene. When he reached Donovan and the stranger, he took a quick second to compose himself.

“What’s going on?”

Donovan turned toward him, outrage written on her face. “This….this freak wants to ‘take a look’ at our crime scene!”

Lestrade peered at the man. He looked incredibly bored. “This is a crime scene, sir. You can’t just expect to walk in.”

The man rolled his eyes. “Don’t call me sir. My name’s Sherlock, and I certainly do expect to walk in.”

“Look, mate, Sherlock, whatever, it’s a crime scene,”

“I’m well aware.”

Greg threw up his hands. “Then why on earth do you think I’ll let you on it?”

Sherlock smiled, and it was the most cunning grin Lestrade had ever seen on another person’s face. “Because I can solve your murder. Because you need a weapon, Detective Inspector Lestrade. A weapon that you can use with crimes like this, when you’re stuck and coming up against countless dead ends, when your resources are too idiotic to find the answer. And because,” Sherlock grinned again. “I’d rather work with you than Gregson or Dimmock.”

Greg blinked in amazement. “How-”

“Oh please, don’t,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. With a graceful bend, he lifted the crime scene tape and ducked under, coming to stand in front of Lestrade. Donovan made some kind of undignified squawk, but Greg was too focussed on the absolutely captivating man who’d just shown up at a crime scene, with raven hair and eyes that appeared to be half a dozen colors at the same time.

“Now,” Sherlock said. “Here’s my card.” A pale hand flashed out of his coat pocket, a small white piece of paper held between his fingers. Hesitantly, Greg took it. Sherlock Holmes, it read. Consulting Detective. +44 (0) 207 958 7731.

“Consulting Detective?” Greg asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock said succinctly. “Now, you are clearly not ready to admit you need help yet,” he continued, staring at Lestrade. “But, when you are, text me. I’ll be waiting.” With a nod, and-was that a wink? Sherlock Holmes ducked back under the crime scene tape and walked away, coat flaring dramatically behind him.

Lestrade watched him until the odd man was just a figure exiting the station, and then turned back to the scene, utterly bewildered.

Chapter Text

Greg stood at the window in his office with his mobile to his ear, staring down at the sidewalk below. He could feel the tension in his shoulders as the phone rang, and it only increased when Sherlock picked up.

“I thought I told you to text,” he said, exasperated and disinterested at the same time. “No matter. Have you finally come to your senses?”

“Come- come to my senses?” Lestrade snapped into his phone. “I most certainly have, and let me tell you something, Sherlock Holmes- I’m not letting anywhere near my crime scenes!”

“What?” Sherlock said, bewildered, and Greg pushed down the guilt that threatened to well up, instead focusing on the anger he’d felt when the search results had popped up.

“I looked you up, Sherlock- you’ve got multiple priors for drug possession! And there is no sodding way in hell I’d let a junkie help on investigations.”

There was a silence on the line, and Greg had begun to think that Sherlock had hung up when the man finally replied. “I see.”

Maybe it was how quietly Sherlock had said it, or the way those two small words were filled with so much detached disappointment, as if he should have expected Lestrade’s reaction but had hoped for something better. Whatever it was, Greg’s anger was snuffed out like a weak candle flame and he sighed, shoulders slumping. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, but I just-”

“No, I understand,” Sherlock cut him off crisply. “Good day, Inspector.”

When Greg heard the click of Sherlock disconnecting, he stared at his mobile for a moment before collapsing into the chair at his desk, trying to erase the mental image of Sherlock’s crystalline eyes filled with disappointment.

Lestrade hated breaking the news to families, that their son or daughter or father or mother or sibling was dead, that they’d been murdered. It was part of the job, but it always left him with a sick feeling that coated the bottom of his stomach. I need to sleep, he thought to himself as he walked down the hall at the Yard. He hadn’t gotten any proper time away from the Yard since the train station case, and that had been almost a week ago. Unfortunately, rest wasn’t in the foreseeable future; even if he got a chance to go home, another case had landed on his desk that morning and he never slept well when there was something to be done.

“Detective Inspector.” The smooth, cultured voice cut through Greg’s thoughts, and he looked up to find a man in a three piece suit leaning up against his office door, twisting his umbrella gently so that it spun against the floor.

“Hello,” Lestrade said wearily. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to speak to you about Sherlock Holmes.”

Greg ran a hand down his face. “Oh Christ. Look- I didn’t ask for his help, never let him on a crime scene, I am totally-”

The strange man raised a hand, and Lestrade fell silent. “I am well aware of your history with Sherlock. Perhaps I should explain.”

Greg sighed. “Can we do this in my office, at least?”

The man acquiesced with a slight nod, and Lestrade unlocked his door and stepped inside, sitting at his desk while the stranger took a chair.

“I am Sherlock’s brother,” he began. “Mycroft Holmes. I’ve come to ask you to reconsider your decision about allowing Sherlock...assist in your investigations.”

“I can’t,” Greg said, holding his hands out. “Even if I wanted to. The brass, they’d never allow it, and….he’s got a history.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “What if I were to tell you he no longer does, in the eyes of the law?”

Lestrade’s eyebrows wrinkled in confusion. “What?”

Mycroft looked down at his umbrella. “My brother is a very brilliant man. He can look at you and know your life story in a matter of seconds; he’d been able to do the same thing at your crime scenes. The drugs are the only thing stopping him. I occupy a...minor position, in the British government,”and Lestrade snorted at the thought of Mycroft doing anything minor. The elder Holmes looked at him, lips quirked in a knowing smile, then continued. “I was able to...convince my superiors that Sherlock’s record should be expunged.”

Greg looked at Mycroft thoughtfully. “A clean record and a brilliant mind doesn’t do much if he’s still using.”

“I was hoping you might speak to him.”

“What?”

Mycroft cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I’m willing to help Sherlock get clean, would be happy to, in fact. But we’ve always had a….distant relationship, and the gap has grown as we’ve gotten older. I fear he won’t listen to me. But if you were to tell him that getting clean would provide him access to crime scenes…”

Lestrade found himself nodding before he even thought about what that meant. “Yes. I’ll do it.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft, though he tried to hide it, looked relieved. He stood and, with a nod of thanks, began to leave, though he stopped at the door. “I think you and Sherlock will work well together,” he said, and disappeared down the hall with his umbrella before Greg could reply.

He stared for a moment at the empty doorway, then got up to close the door to his office before sitting down to boot up his computer. Something like this was better done in person, and Sherlock’s business card didn’t have his address.

Chapter Text

Sherlock’s place on Montague Street was in the middle of a long block of flats that looked like they’d been built in the 1850s. As he walked up the front steps, Lestrade took a deep breath, preparing himself. There were two buzzers to the right of the outer door, and Greg leaned on the top one with 17 engraved next to it. After a moment with no answer, he let go, assuming that Sherlock wasn't home.

Greg stepped away from the door and put his hands in his pockets, looking up at the cloudy sky. What do I do now? He didn’t have a bloody clue where else Sherlock could be, and sitting outside his flat for the rest of the day didn’t sound appealing. But at the same time, something nagged at the back of his brain, a little voice that told him you have to do this. So, instead of walking down the front steps and getting back in his car and driving away like logic dictated, Lestrade stepped back up to the door and pressed the buzzer with the 16.

A small sense of relief hit him when the door opened to a young woman of twenty-something with red hair and lots of makeup, dressed in a baggy t-shirt and tight shorts.

“Whaddya want?” she drawled irritably, and Lestrade cleared his throat.

“I was hoping you could let me in? I’m supposed to see Sherlock but he isn’t answering the buzzer.”

The woman rolled her eyes. “The bastard never does,” she said, then swung the door open and stepped back, letting Greg into the small entryway. “Help yourself- he’s upstairs.”

“Is he home?”

“Oh, yeah. Definitely,” she said in an irked tone.

“Thanks,” he said distractedly, looking around. The inside looked as old as the outside; the wood floors aged and possibly decomposing, and the wallpaper curled at the edges. Trying to connect this worn-down flat with Sherlock’s posh personality, Lestrade started towards the stairs.

“Hey,” the woman called from behind him, and Lestrade turned.

“Yeah?”

She looked confused, standing there, the door still open. “What are you, to Sherlock? Family, or something?”

Greg pushed down the chuckle at the thought of being related to Sherlock (or Mycroft), and answered, “Or something,” before turning and trudging up the stairs to number 17. At the top of the stairs there was a short hallway before a plain brown door, and as he walked towards it Lestrade could hear the strings of an instrument- violin?- being played in a fashion that reminded him of a wailing cat.

When he knocked on the door, the sound abruptly stopped, and a long silence went by before it started up again. A drop of annoyance passed through him, and he knocked again, more insistently. This time, when the noise stopped, Lestrade took a breath to speak.

“Sherlock, it’s DI Lestrade. Open up.”

“No,” Sherlock called from the other side of the door.

Greg rolled his eyes. God, he’s stubborn. “Sherlock, I will sit outside this door until you open it.”

“You can’t. You’ve got a job.”

“I’ve got vacation days piled up.”

After another long pause, Lestrade finally heard footsteps and, with a twist of the lock, the door creaked open to reveal Sherlock, looking very annoyed.

“What do you want?” he growled. “You made your point very clear. And don’t worry- I won’t bother showing up to any of your future crime scenes.”

Lestrade sighed, though he could admit Sherlock had a right be upset. “May I come in?”

Sherlock stared at him, and Lestrade felt like he was being turned inside out, or read like a book. Finally, with an air of you’re very lucky I’m doing this, Sherlock stepped aside and let Lestrade walk into the flat.

The place looked like a war zone; stacks of paper and books were piled on every available surface, including most of the couch and the lone armchair, the only exception being the kitchen table. That, it seemed, was reserved for a large amount of chemistry apparatus, filled with liquids of varying color that Lestrade didn’t want to think about. Laying on the window sill was the violin he’d heard earlier, it’s bow to the side. As he looked around, Greg wondered if it always looked like this.

Sherlock flopped down on the empty part of the couch, and raised an eyebrow when Lestrade stayed standing, awkwardly debating with himself if he should clear off the armchair or if that would be too presumptuous.

“Oh just move the damn papers already,” Sherlock bit out, exasperated, and Greg started forward, picking up the pile and looking around before hesitantly setting it on the floor beside him and then perching on the edge of the seat.

“So, um,” Lestrade cleared his throat. “How you been?”

Sherlock sighed, frustrated. “Really? We’re going to do small talk? Fine- I’m going through the beginning stages of withdrawal because I haven’t had a hit in a day or two and I haven’t been able to sleep. I’m restless and going out of my mind with tedium and I’m thoroughly regretting my decision to approach you. Satisfied?”

Lestrade blinked in surprise. “Um, no.”

Sherlock groaned. “What more do you want from me?” he exclaimed, waving a hand in the air, but before he could continue Greg took a breath and dived in.

“I want you to get clean.”

Sherlock stared, open mouthed. “What?”

“I want you to get clean.”

Upon hearing it the second time, Sherlock began to bristle. “You can’t just-”

“No, stop.” Lestrade held up a hand, determined to finish. “I’m not going to drag you out to a clinic or anything. Just listen. If you get clean,” he continued, “and stay that way, I will let you on a crime scene. Once. And if I decide that an arrangement could work, then I will let you on more.”

“Why?” Sherlock looked suspicious.

Lestrade exhaled noisily. This is where it gets tricky. “Your brother-”

Sherlock jumped up from the couch and stalked over to the window. “Mycroft,” he said bitterly. “That’s why you came. Because Mycroft paid you to.”

“What? No!” Greg said, and got up to stand behind Sherlock, who was staring out the glass at the street below. “That’s not why, Sherlock.” Hesitantly, he reached out and laid a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and while the muscles tensed, he didn’t pull away. “Yes, your brother asked me if I would reconsider. But,” he emphasized, “it was my choice. It may sound crazy, but I think working with you- I think it’s something I’m supposed to do.”

Sherlock snorted. “Destiny, Inspector? Doesn’t seem like something you’d be into. You’re not even religious- haven’t been to church in years.”

“How-” Lestrade stuttered. “How did you know that?”

“No religious paraphernalia, and you shifted when you spoke, implying fate or predestination is not something you generally believe in. Not a difficult leap.”

Greg smiled a bit. “It’s true. I’m not really one for God. But that doesn’t changed the fact I think I’m meant to help you.”

“I’ll think about it.” Sherlock’s reply was quiet, uncertain.

Lestrade nodded and squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder. “Okay. Let me know when you decide.” Greg turned and walked to the door, twisted the knob between his fingers, only pausing for one last, quick glance at Sherlock before opening it and leaving.

As he walked towards the lifts in the lobby of the Yard, his mobile vibrated with a text message. Lestrade pulled the phone out of his pocket and opened it, smiling when he saw the somewhat familiar number and the word the message contained.

Agreed.

Chapter Text

Lestrade sighed wearily as he stood outside Scotland Yard, incredibly thankful that he’d finally closed a case that had gone on for a week. His brain felt like mush, and every muscle and bone in his body was protesting from the nights he’d spent slumped at his desk, either blearily staring at files or dozing. As Greg watched his breath turn into a white cloud, he shivered and stuffed his hands in his pockets and quickened his pace.

His car was cold, the air having that sort of cooped-up smell it got when he’d let it sit for a couple days. Lestrade drove home in silence, letting the sound of tyres and the warmth from the heater soothe him as the adrenaline from the past few days slowly left his system. By the time he pulled up in front of his flat, it had started to snow, and all he really craved was a cup of tea and sleep. So he locked his car (making sure to hear the click) and slowly trudged up the stairs to his front door, where he leaned against the door while he fumbled for his keys. Finally, after what seemed like forever, he gripped the metal key ring and pulled it from his pocket, but his fingers, clumsy with exhaustion, dropped them.

Fuck. Lestrade closed his eyes and dropped his forehead against the door, wondering if he should just give up and sleep on his front step. It can’t be worse than the desk…

“Detective Inspector.”

“Jesus Christ-” Greg flinched at the voice from behind him, trying to whirl around and see who the bloody hell was talking, but only succeeded in twisting his upper body while his feet stayed rooted in one place, making his back thump against the door. “Sodding hell, Sherlock,” he gasped as he made out the figure standing at the top of the stairs. “Don’t do that.”

Sherlock stepped under the weak porch light, closer to Lestrade. “My apologies. Would you prefer I just let myself in, in the future?” he inquired, then moved forward and picked up Greg’s keys. Quicksilver eyes observed him, before Sherlock unlocked the door himself and held Greg’s shoulder to keep him from falling as the door swung open. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Lestrade noticed that there was snow in Sherlock’s hair, and his nose was red with cold.

“You don’t have a key,” he slurred in response to Sherlock’s question as the other man propped him up against the wall before turning to close the door. Sherlock shrugged.

“Don’t need one. Where’s the bedroom?”

Greg shook his head in confusion, trying to think through the fog in his mind. What?

Sherlock looked annoyed. “The bedroom. Where-oh, never mind,” he flapped a hand. “I’ll figure it out myself.” And with that he swirled around Lestrade’s flat, opening doors and peering inside while Greg stared and tried to figure out if he was hallucinating.

“No, you’re not hallucinating,” Sherlock called to him from the bedroom, then popped his head out into the hall. “You are about to pass out from exhaustion, though,” he said, then walked to Lestrade and dragged him into the bedroom. “Which is why you’re going to sleep now. I can’t abide idiots on a good day; God knows what I’d do to a sleep-deprived DI who’s barely coherent.”

Sherlock shoved him onto the bed, and with a flailing of limbs Greg landed on the mattress, still trying to make sense of this situation. Why is Sherlock here? What...what is going on?

“I’m here because I’m homeless,” Sherlock said impatiently. “And what’s going on is you’re going to sleep, I’m going to do something to stop myself from dying of boredom, and then tomorrow, or the day after at the latest, you’re going to give me a crime to solve.”

Lestrade tried to fight the tendrils of sleep dragging him down, but the warmth of his flat and the softness of his mattress pulled him further and further until everything went black.

“Oh. So….you’re actually here.” Lestrade’s voice was rough as he stood in the entrance to his kitchen, where Sherlock Holmes was slouched in a chair, reading the paper.

“I told you you weren’t hallucinating,” Sherlock said calmly, and reached out for the cup of tea beside him.

Lestrade had woken up in his bed that morning, suit completely wrinkled and still wearing his shoes. It had taken him a moment to remember what had happened the night before; when he did, Greg had ran a hand down his face and wondered what his life was becoming, because some days it bloody well felt like a show on the telly. Who the hell just shows up on someone’s doorstep in the middle of the night? Or worse, who imagined someone showing up on their doorstep in the middle of the night?

But Greg had always been good at focusing on immediate needs, so he’d stripped and stumbled into the shower, the knob turned almost all the way on the hot side. As the spray and steam helped soothe his tired body and wake up his mind, Greg decided that he’d handle the situation, regardless of whether he’d imagined Sherlock or not, when he was finished.

When the water had begun to cool, he’d gotten out and dried himself with the fluffiest towel he owned, and put on the most comfortable pair of pyjama bottoms and t-shirt in his drawers, and told himself that he wasn’t procrastinating.

Now, in the kitchen, Lestrade replied to Sherlock as he reheated the kettle. “You did tell me.” Then, after an uncomfortable moment, Greg cleared his throat. “So. Homeless, huh?”

Sherlock huffed and shook the paper slightly, causing a slight smile to pull up the corners of Lestrade’s mouth. “Yes,” Sherlock grumbled. “Until I can get my flat on Montague sorted, anyway.”

“Ah,” Greg nodded as he dunked the tea bag into his mug. “But you’re...doing better?”

“If you mean ‘are you clean’, then yes.”

“That’s. That’s good.” Lestrade looked at the back of Sherlock’s head. His hair was longer now; some of the dark strands curled their way around the nape of his neck. As if he’d felt Greg’s stare, Sherlock turned his head and looked up at him.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Greg said, clearing his throat, then moved to plug the toaster in. “You want some toast?”

“Oh, I suppose so,” Sherlock sighed, and Lestrade set about the task of breakfast quietly. When the second set of slices popped up, he set the plate full of toast on the table and sat across from Sherlock, sipping his tea.

“It’s just…” Greg began quietly, and when Sherlock said nothing, he continued. “you were gone for a long time. Almost a year.”

Sherlock folded the paper and set it aside, not meeting Lestrade’s eyes, then picked up his tea. “A cocaine addiction is surprisingly hard to kick,” Sherlock admitted into his mug. Greg got the feeling Sherlock wasn’t used to showing vulnerability, so he didn’t reply, instead finishing his toast and retreating to his room to get dressed. When he came back out, Sherlock looked at him curiously.

“Where are you going?”

“Um, work,” Lestrade replied as he shrugged on his coat.

“You’re off today.”

“Paperwork doesn’t do itself,” Greg grimaced. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Help yourself to,” he gestured to the flat, “whatever, I guess.”

Sherlock was still looking at him oddly, as if he were surprised Lestrade trusted him enough to leave him alone, but Lestrade just waved a goodbye and closed the door behind him.

Chapter Text

I've  got a case.

Cold or new? -SH  

New. Interested?

Obviously. -SH

Southgate Road, Islington.

I’ll be there. -SH

“Show me the body,” Sherlock said eagerly when Lestrade met him at the crime scene tape. The constables looked concerned, but Greg waved them off.

Silently, Lestrade lifted the tape for Sherlock, then motioned with his head for Sherlock to follow him, then walked to the flat, where the forensics team was milling around, collecting samples. “It’s in the bedroom,” Greg said, and turned when there was no reply.

Sherlock was looking at a picture that was propped up on a bookshelf, eyes squinted in concentration.

“Sherlock?”

The tall man waved him off, still giving the photograph a critical eye, but after a moment turned back to Lestrade. “The bedroom, you said?” And with a swirl of his coat, Sherlock swept past him into the hall.

“You should know that-” Greg began as Sherlock opened the door to the bedroom, but it was too late.

“-it’s kind of….”

“Brilliant,” Sherlock breathed.

“Yeah, I-wait, what?” Greg stared at Sherlock, whose gaze was practically devouring the skinless body that was laid out on the bed. As Lestrade watched, Sherlock slowly moved forward, pulling a pair of tweezers from his coat pocket and shucking off his leather gloves.

A pale hand reached out, tweezers probing the place on the woman’s chest where the skin had been cut and peeled away, revealing the pink muscle tissue underneath. “This is fascinating,” Sherlock told him reverently.

“Um. How, exactly?”

Sherlock ignored him, still staring at the muscles of the body, then bent down to sniff at the remaining skin.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” Lestrade began, but was cut off by a glare from Sherlock that plainly read do shut up. With a sigh, Greg simply kept quiet, watching Sherlock as he conducted his examination. Finally, he looked up at Lestrade.

“Got anything?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he replied, then grinned slyly. “I've got everything.”

Greg pulled out a notebook and pen. “Okay. Give it to me.”

“Let’s begin with the missing skin.” Sherlock gestured to the edges of the cut. “Clearly a steady hand- no shaking or tears in the skin, so he knew what he was doing. There’s also a faint hint of alcohol- acetone she used as nail polish remover- which was most likely used to wash away the blood while he was cutting. Probably some kind of medical training, though not a doctor.”

“Why not?”

“A doctor would have avoided some of the larger veins that this man didn't; less messy.”

“Why take the skin at all?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as if to say what a ridiculous question. “Multitude of reasons,” he answered sharply, “but most likely due to obsession with this woman, whoever she was. The skin was undoubtedly a trophy of some sort.” Glancing up, Sherlock swept a look around the room, then nodded to himself, as if confirming a suspicion. “She was being stalked; it’s not a far leap from following someone to obsession. If angered, a stalker can easily turn violent, especially when their fantasies are destroyed.”

As Sherlock had rattled off his deductions, Lestrade had gotten increasingly confused, until at the end of the monologue, his head was almost spinning. “What-”

“Guv,” Donovan said stiffly from the doorway. “A word?”

Turning, Greg shook himself mentally, forcibly pulling himself back into the world of a crime scene. “Yeah, sure,” he answered, then followed her out into the hall, bracing himself. Lord knows how Donovan will take this...

“Boss,” she began, when they were a few feet away from the door. “What on earth-”

“Stop, please. Just listen,” Lestrade told her, and held up a hand when Donovan tried to continue. “He’s good, Donovan, and we need him.”

“He’s a freak, Lestrade!”

Greg cut her a sharp look, trying not to get angry. “Watch it, Sally.”

“No, I will not ‘watch it’,” the sergeant hissed furiously. “We do not need him- we’ve gotten on just fine for years! Letting him help you out on cold cases is one thing, but we don’t need a necrophiliac psychopath hanging about at our crime scenes, guv!”

“High-functioning sociopath would be more accurate, Sergeant Donovan,” a voice said from behind them, and Greg turned to see Sherlock propped up against the door frame, shooting them a disinterested look. “And you do, in fact, need me, considering the complete idiocy that comprises your team. Lestrade, I’d like to accompany you to the morgue.”

“Um,” Lestrade said, wildly trying to get ahold of himself. “Sure, fine.”

“Lestrade?” Anderson’s head popped around the corner of the hallway, and Greg interally sighed. Wonderful. Can this day get any worse?

Apparently so. Upon seeing Anderson, Sherlock’s lip curled and with a terse, “I’ll be outside,” the consultant walked off, leaving Lestrade in the hall with Donovan staring, smug, and Anderson completely clueless.

Where are you? If you really left,

I’m never letting you on a crime scene again.

 Around the corner. -SH

True to his word, Sherlock was around the corner, leaning up against the brick wall of the corner building, a cigarette between his lips.

“I thought you were going to quit,” Lestrade said as he approached.

Sherlock shrugged and exhaled a plume of smoke into the air. “Your sergeant and the dolt on forensics are sleeping together.”

Greg winced. “Didn't want to know that, Sherlock,” he said, then sighed. “Look, I’m sorry about-”

“Don’t be,” Sherlock interrupted. “They’re idiots; that’s their problem, not mine. You wanted to know how I knew the girl was being stalked.”

Lestrade stared for a moment, trying to get a read on the other man, but Sherlock’s gaze stayed firmly fixed on the sky. “Yeah,” Lestrade finally answered.

“Her windows had locks on them,” Sherlock stated. “An extra set of curtains on each, in an attempt to keep people from looking in, and getting in. The locks on her front door was recently installed, so she changed them and her keys. Why? To keep someone out.”

Lestrade nodded. “Okay. If she reported it, we’ll have a record. I’ll get Donovan on it,” he said, and pulled out his mobile to send a text.

“I still want to go to the morgue.”

“Fine.”

The morgue attendant was a mousy young girl- Molly, Lestrade remembered- and when Sherlock entered the morgue she gave a little squeak.

“Hello,” she greeted quietly. “How can I help-”

“I want to see a body,” Sherlock demanded. “Came in a short time ago; missing skin.”

Molly’s face lit up with recognition. “Oh, sure,” she said. “Just came in a few minutes ago.” With that, she walked over to an examination table, where the body from the house was laid out.

Sherlock swept over to it, re-scanning the body before turning to Lestrade. “Have you determined ID yet?”

Lestrade shook his head, about to reply that they were still waiting on the crime scene unit, but Molly spoke up. “I know who she is.”

Sherlock looked at her sharply. “Who?”

Under the tall man’s scrutiny, Molly stuttered a bit, a blush spreading over her cheeks as she answered. “She uh...came in a few months ago. For her sister. Her name was….Alyssa. Alyssa Manning, if I remember correctly.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, muttering under his breath. “Sister...picture...dust….” Then, his eyes snapped open and he whirled around, facing Molly. “Why her?” he snapped, and Molly flinched.

“Sorry?”

Sherlock circled the girl, and as Lestrade looked on he wondered if he ought to intervene. “Why her?” Sherlock repeated. “You see hundreds of relatives, the faces must blend together at some point, so why do you remember her?”

“Oh!” Molly exclaimed. “Well, um,” she fidgeted. “She and Michael were...well, you know.”

“No, I don’t,” Sherlock said, and Molly blushed again.

“They...dated.”

Sherlock, who had begun to pace, stopped and stared at Lestrade, face full of epiphany. “Oh,” he said lowly. “Oh.”

“What?” Lestrade was confused, but felt his heart speed up in excitement at Sherlock's tone.

Sherlock grinned. “A man with medical knowledge, but not a doctor. The victim was being stalked. Most stalkers are….” he looked at Lestrade, eyebrows raised.

Oh. “Ex boyfriends or girlfriends.”

Sherlock’s grin grew wider. “Exactly!” he said, pointing at Greg. “Now,” he swung towards Molly, “when was Michael fired?”

“A...few weeks ago, I think.”

“Why?”

“He missed so many shifts….” Molly trailed off as Sherlock began to stride towards the double doors of the lab.

“Come along, Lestrade,” Sherlock bellowed. “Time to go get your man!”

Chapter Text

As Sherlock burst out of St. Bart’s, Lestrade’s phone rang. Digging the mobile out of his pocket, Lestrade read Donovan on the screen and, gesturing to it, gave Sherlock a helpless look.

“I’ve got to take this.”

Sherlock huffed, but didn’t protest, and started pacing the sidewalk.

“Donovan,” Lestrade answered. “What have you got for me?”

“The victim is Alyssa Manning, filed a report with us a month ago saying that she was being stalked-”

Lestrade jumped as his phone was snatched away from his ear. “Hey,” he protested, but Sherlock ignored him and began speaking to Donovan.

“Sergeant,” he barked into the phone. “Yes, it’s me, now shut up and listen. We already know who the victim is, and that she was being stalked. I need to know who her stalker was. First name Michael, worked as a morgue attendant at Bart’s up until a few weeks ago. Can you do that?” Sherlock listened for a second, then rolled his eyes in disgust and handed the phone back to Lestrade.

“Do it, Sally,” Greg said.

“Guv, are you sure-”

“Yes. Do it.”

There was silence on the line, then a moment later, Donovan spoke again. “Michael Harding.”

“Address?” Sherlock snapped, and Lestrade repeated the question.

“Flat 37, Northpoint House, Essex Road.”

“Thank you,” Greg said, then hung up and recited the address to Sherlock, who walked to the kerb and flung out an arm. Within a moment, a cab had pulled up and Sherlock slid into the back seat, Lestrade scrambling in behind him.

“Northpoint House, Essex Road,” Sherlock said in a clipped tone, and the cabbie merged into the sea of cars. Greg stared at him and wondered how, in the space of an hour, his life had gotten so bizarre. Sherlock avoided his gaze, keeping his eyes fixed on the city outside the window, but after a few minutes he turned at glared at Lestrade. “Why are you staring at me?”

Lestrade shook his head with a smile. “No reason.”

Northpoint House was a modern-looking complex, with a colour scheme full of tans and whites. As the cab slowed to a stop by the kerb, Sherlock jumped out, a flurry of movement and pent-up excitement, and began striding towards the door of the building. Muttering a curse under his breath, Greg threw some money at the driver (probably too much) and ran to catch up.

“Sherlock,” he said just outside the door, reaching out for the other man’s shoulder, “Stop. We need backup!”

Sherlock looked at him in annoyance. “There isn’t any time for backup, Lestrade. Who knows what he could be doing to evidence right now!” And with that, Sherlock wrenched his shoulder out of Lestrade’s grip and continued onwards, the door swinging shut behind him.

Greg’s convictions were pulling him in two different directions. On the one hand, watching Sherlock stalk off into the flat of a man who was most likely a crazy killer made Lestrade’s chest twist with the need to follow and keep him safe. On the other, all his training had taught him to wait for backup, to trust in his fellow police officers to help him get the job done.

Sherlock was nearing the lift now; Greg could see him through the glass doors, and the swinging pendulum of his principles stuck on follow Sherlock. Mind made up, Lestrade burst through the doors and ran across the lobby, dashing into the lift just before the doors closed. Standing next to Sherlock, he caught his breath, though he kept his eyes down. Lestrade didn’t want to see Sherlock analysing his actions, deducing his motives- mostly because he didn’t know himself.

As the floor numbers went by, Lestrade pulled out his phone and sent a terse text to Donovan. We’re going in. Backup needed ASAP.

With a soft ding, the lift doors opened and Lestrade and Sherlock stepped out onto the third storey, a long hallway full of doors looking back at them. Sherlock moved to the nearest door, glancing at the number upon it, then continued in that direction down the corridor. Lestrade followed close behind, noting how the numbers counted down. 40...39...38….

Number 37 looked the same as all the others, from the outside. White door, gold painted numbers nailed to it a bit above eye level. Sherlock flashed a look at Lestrade, expression full of barely contained anticipation. Lestrade gave a nod in reply to the unasked question, and Sherlock rapped on the door.

“Mr Harding?” he called, and Lestrade marveled at how different it was from his normal tone; softer, less direct, with more of a lilt. “Mr Harding, please answer the door.”

A minute passed before Lestrade could hear the turning of the lock; his heart began to pound even faster, and he could feel the blood rushing through his veins. Finally, the door opened a crack, and Lestrade could see a man- Michael Harding- peeking through the small space.

“What do you want?” he asked tremulously. Harding’s dark eyes were red rimmed, as if he hadn’t slept in days, his brown hair sticking up. In response to the question, Sherlock smiled kindly.

“Molly sent us,” he said. “Molly from the morgue? She wanted to come herself but...well, she got busy.” Sherlock affected a sad tone of voice. “She’s worried about you, Michael.”

“She...she is?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. Yes she is. May we come in?”

Harding looked undecided for a moment, but then hesitantly nodded and opened the door further, stepping back to let them in. As Lestrade walked past the odd man, the smell hit him. Blood, acetone, and-though he had no idea how he knew- the scent of fear. Disturbed that their suspicions about Michael had been confirmed, and ill at ease about the whole situation, Lestrade averted his gaze and stuck closer to Sherlock.

The living room was small, and sparsely furnished with a threadbare couch, scratched coffee coffee table, and a bookcase that appeared to lean just slightly. Sherlock, though, walked past the living room and into the hall.

“Where’s he going?” Harding demanded nervously, and Greg forced an easy chuckle.

“Oh, the loo,” he said. “He was complaining the whole way over about having to go. Sorry he didn’t ask first.”

Michael looked at him suspiciously for a moment, then appeared to shrug it off. “It’s fine.”

There was an awkward moment of tense silence, the Lestrade spoke again. “I’m Greg, by the way. And that,” he gestured towards the hall, “is Sherlock.”

Michael nodded, and Lestrade continued.

“Yeah, you know,” he said, then began moving around, looking at the bookshelves, “Sherlock wasn’t exaggerating- Molly really is worried about you.”

“I didn’t-” Harding cleared his throat. “I didn’t realize she cared so much.”

“Oh sure,” Lestrade answered, and moved past the bookcase to where a few pictures hung on the wall.

“It’s just interesting, because, well,” Harding said, and Lestrade started to turn in confusion. Why does he sound so confident? But before he could face the rest of the room, the cold press of metal to the back of his head stopped him.

“We never even met,” Harding finished on a whisper.

Oh shite.

“Do you know what happens when you pull the trigger on a gun, Greg?”

“No.” Lestrade’s voice was just as quiet as Harding’s. Dammit Sherlock, where are you?

“It’s like striking a match, lighting a fire. A small hint of combustion, and bang. A bullet goes flying out of the barrel. I should have shot her.”

“Why?”

“I know, the poison was fun….but shooting her...watching her bleed out in front of me...I think I would have enjoyed that a lot.” Harding paused, as if he was thinking something over. “Maybe I’ll shoot you instead.”

“Oh, but shooting people is boring,” Sherlock said from behind them, and Lestrade could feel the barrel of the gun shift as Michael turned.

“Boring?”

“Yes, obviously.” All of Sherlock’s earlier timidness and softness was gone- now, his voice was like glass, sharp and cutting. “Isn’t it much more interesting to cut them open, watch the blood trickle out of their veins? Isn’t it much more interesting to do this?”

Greg could hear Harding inhale sharply, and Lestrade risked a minuscule movement of his head to see Sherlock holding up the square of skin that had been missing from Alyssa Manning’s body, now covered in writing of some sort. Oh God.

“Don’t touch that,” Michael said frantically, and Lestrade felt him press the gun harder against his skull. “Put it down, now, or I’ll shoot him! I swear to God, I-”

Harding was cut off by the sound of the door slamming open, and then Lestrade could hear Donovan saying something, the scuffle of feet upon the flat’s wood floors, but all he could focus on was the weight of the gun moving away. He turned, surprised and confused, just in time to hear Michael whisper “Bang” before the sound of the gunshot filled the room and Harding crumpled to the ground.

“What was written on the skin?”

Greg and Sherlock were standing by one of the patrol cars, watching as Michael Harding’s body was wheeled out of Northpoint House. Greg had a shock blanket over his shoulders, though he’d been telling the truth when he told Donovan he was fine- a bit dazed, but it wasn’t as if he was going to break down.

“Poetry,” Sherlock said emotionlessly. “About how she was beautiful, then how she betrayed him, how she deserved it.”

Greg didn’t know what to say to that, so instead he and Sherlock just stood there in silence, watching the controlled chaos of police around them.

“I don’t know if I should count this one as a win or a loss,” he admitted finally, not daring to look over at his companion.

“A win, of course,” Sherlock stated. “We solved the case.”

“A man died.”

“It was his choice.” A pause. “I’m dying for a fag. You?”

Lestrade glanced at Sherlock, who was already pulling out a pack of cigarettes, and a small smile pulled up one side of his mouth. “Sure.”

Chapter Text

Lestrade was just exiting the Yard after a long shift when his mobile vibrated with a text. Stopping and and pulling it out of his pocket, he opened the message, interest piqued by the John displayed on the screen.

Do you have time for a couple pints tonight?

Yeah, sure, Lestrade typed out, slightly surprised by the abrupt invitation, but pleased that John wanted to meet up with him. Lestrade like John, and genuinely enjoyed his company. And it’s better than going home to an empty house, he thought to himself.

Thanks. Usual place work for you?

Yeah. See you in a half hour or so.

Cheers.

“Hey,” Lestrade greeted John as he approached the table that the doctor was sitting at, nursing a pint.

“Greg!” John stood and clasped Lestrade’s hand warmly, a smile on his face. “Glad you could come. How you been?”

Lestrade considered the long nights he spent at the Yard avoiding home and the distance that had come between him and his wife as she found whatever she was looking for somewhere else. Finally, with a shrug of his shoulders he answered. “Same old, same old.”

Something flickered in John’s eyes- worry, maybe, or concern- but Lestrade flashed him a smile that said I’m fine and took a seat. The pub was a nice, small sort of place, only a short distance from Baker Street. It was the kind of pub that let you relax and forget about your troubles for a bit.

“I got you a pint,” John said, and just as the words left his mouth a bartender came up to their table and set a glass down by Lestrade.

“Ta.”

John shrugged. “Not a problem. You deserve it.”

Greg could hear the undertones of frustration in John’s words. “Something happen?” he asked as he took a sip of his beer.

John sighed. “It’s just...sometimes, Sherlock Holmes is a complete wanker.”

Lestrade laughed. “No need to tell me,” he said, then sobered a bit. “But really. What happened?”

John shrugged and drank from his glass before answering. “He let loose on Amy- my girlfriend,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “She didn’t even wait for him to finish before leaving. I tried to talk to her but, well,” John grimaced. “She smacked me and told me never to talk to her again.”

Greg winced in sympathy. “I’m sorry, mate. That sounds-God, I don’t even know.”

“Yeah,” John agreed. “I mean- Sherlock is great- brilliant, and actually not so bad once you get to know him. But sometimes I wonder if he’s ever been in a romantic relationship before.”

Lestrade stayed quiet. He wondered that too, sometimes, but after years of being around Sherlock and watching the man’s actions, he’d finally decided that Sherlock was probably asexual, or that any past relationships hadn’t gone well. After a moment, John looked at him, surprised by his silence.

“He- he really hasn’t?”

“I don’t know,” Greg replied honestly. John studied him for a moment longer, and then nodded and took another sip from his pint.

“So,” John said with an easy smile, and Lestrade felt something inside him relax at the obvious change of subject. “What did you think about Liverpool’s match last week?”

“Where’s John?”

Sherlock scowled at Lestrade as he swept past him into the hotel room. “Not here, obviously.” Anderson, who was just coming out of the room, pushed his hair back and whispered (loudly) to Donovan as he passed.

“Probably realized how psycho he is in bed and cut his losses.”

Lestrade shot the forensics man a glare, and Anderson bowed his head and scuttled off. Giving a don’t even start look to Donovan, Greg followed Sherlock and closed the door behind him.

“I’m sorry about that,” Greg sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. Sherlock was already bent over the body, though Lestrade could see more tension in his spine than usual.

“Don’t be,” the consulting detective said dispassionately. Greg winced at his tone- the detached, empty one that only appeared when Sherlock was trying to shove down his emotions. Desperately, Lestrade searched for something that would change the topic, restore Sherlock to the infuriating genius that Lestrade….liked. He opened his mouth to inquire about the body, but ended up not asking as Sherlock stood swiftly and crossed over to the window, one hand clenched in a fist covering his mouth, the other stuffed in a coat pocket.

“We had an argument.”

Shocked that Sherlock was actually talking about it, Lestrade reeled for a moment, trying to find an appropriate response. “Um.”

“He went to stay at his sister’s.”

Oh. “And you think he won’t come back.”

Sherlock continued to stare out the small dirty window. “Why would he? I am an abhorrent flatmate.”

“He’s stayed with you for months now, Sherlock.”

“Everybody has their tipping point, Lestrade.” The small sliver of pain that coloured Sherlock’s tone made something in Greg’s chest ache; he wasn’t sure what it was, but the feeling made him cross the room and put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“He’s your friend, Sherlock. And yeah,” Lestrade said, speaking louder when Sherlock opened his mouth to retaliate. “yeah, he’s angry. Everyone gets angry. But John…” he trailed off, gathering his thoughts. Sherlock watched him, looking over his coat-clad shoulder. The turned-up collar just brushed his jawline.

“John is the kind of friend that lasts,” Greg finally continued, holding Sherlock’s eyes with his own. “And he’ll come back. But even if he does move out of Baker Street, someday- he will always be your friend.”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered away, looking down, and there was a long pause where Lestrade could see the walls starting to be rebuilt, Sherlock’s persona taking shape again.

“John and I...we’re just friends. I don’t- I’m not interested in...it’s not my area,” Sherlock said haltingly.

“I know.”

Sherlock’s head turned slightly. “How?”

Lestrade huffed softly. “I’ve known you for over five years, Sherlock. I think I’ve learned some things about you.”

Sherlock acknowledged that with a small nod, then cleared his throat.

“Your murder was an accidental death.”

Greg, taking the cue, stepped away and looked back at the man whose body was splayed out on the hotel’s dingy carpet, taking in the lacerations that criss-crossed across his chest and the markings of a rope around his neck. “Oh?”

“Yes.”

Lestrade pulled out his notebook and pen and flipped to an empty page. “Tell me.”

Chapter Text

...that the marriage solemnized on the 20th day of September 2009 at Westminster Abbey between Gregory Lestrade the Petitioner and Brianna Lestrade the Respondent be dissolved unless sufficient cause can be shown to the Court within six weeks of the making thereof why the said decree should not be made absolute, and no such cause having been shown, it is certified that said decree was on the 12 day of March 2012 made final and absolute and that the said marriage was thereby dissolved.

Lestrade sank heavily into his chair, staring at the document sitting on his desk at the Yard. So this is it. He’d known it was coming, of course- there was a reason why all his personal mail was being forwarded to the Yard, why his bank account had increasingly less money in it. But seeing the deceptively plain piece paper sitting there, amongst the bills and work related letters, Greg felt completely overwhelmed.

He stared at his hands, then realized that now he was divorced, there was no reason to continue wearing the gold band that encircled his left ring finger. Slowly, Greg reached out and twisted the ring, sliding it off his finger. Holding it up, he let it catch the light for a moment, before he put it in the back of one of his desk drawers. Head in hands, Greg slumped at his desk; he didn’t regret his divorce, but...who was he, without a wife? An aging, graying Detective Inspector spending too many nights catching cat naps at his desk? He'd have to find a flat, move his things....

A short rap on his door made him sit up and stuff the decree absolute back into the envelope it’d come in, putting it back into the pile of letters as Donovan entered his office. She lifted up a file folder.

“Case, guv,” she said.

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers and sighed. “Right. Let’s go.”

Lestrade watched the activity going on at the crime scene as if he were looking at it from behind a panel of glass; whenever he listened to Donovan, or Anderson, he never really processed their words, and the usual cacophony of sounds around him was muted. His thoughts kept spinning around the weight gone from his finger, the house that he would probably never go back to. How does someone’s life change so drastically in one afternoon?

“Guv?” Donovan asked, and Lestrade pulled himself out of his thoughts, looking over at the sergeant. She sounded like she’d called for him more than once.

“Yeah?”

“You okay? You seem a bit...out of it.”

Lestrade grimaced. “I am,” he admitted. “A bit out of it, that is.”

Donovan was quiet for a moment, and when she spoke, she sounded as if she wasn’t sure about the words that were coming out of her mouth. “Maybe….I think you should call Holmes.”

Lestrade stared at her, shocked. “What? You- you never suggest bringing in Sherlock.”

It was Donovan’s turn to grimace. “I know but, look. Something’s obviously up with you; you probably haven’t even been thinking about the case. You can get to Baker Street and back within an hour. And it’s only right, that we get a helping hand when we need it. He can solve it faster than us, and then you can take some days off.”

Lestrade looked at Donovan, then away, gaze unfocused. It wasn’t fair to the victim, for Greg to be so inattentive, and Sally was right- Sherlock could solve the case faster than them. Mind made up, he nodded.

“Okay. I’ll drive over to Baker Street now.”

It was a testament to how often Greg had been to 221B over the past two years- or maybe how little he’d been to his own-  that he knew the gold numbers and fading paint on the door better than he knew his own front entrance. Mrs Hudson greeted him with a smile in the hall. He knew exactly which steps creaked, and how quickly it usually took him to reach the top; today, he took his time, running a hand over the railing, studying the wooden steps beneath his feet. When he reached the inner door to Sherlock and John’s flat, he paused before he knocked, fist hovering in the air until he finally brought it down in a set of soft taps.

“Come in,” John called from inside, and Greg took a deep breath as he turned the knob and opened the door.

The flat was cluttered, as it always was. Sherlock was laying face-up on the sofa, eyes closed and hands pressed together under his chin. As Greg stood in the entryway, John popped his head out from the kitchen, a smile on his face. “Greg,” he said cheerfully. “The kettle just boiled- want a cuppa?”

“Um, sure,” Lestrade answered, and turned to take off his coat instead of acknowledging the way Sherlock stared at him, undoubtedly cataloging and breaking down his appearance and hearing the low undercurrent of sadness in his voice.

“Come in, sit down,” John urged him, taking a seat in one of the armchairs. Greg followed suit, still resolutely not looking at Sherlock. John held out a mug, and he reached out and cradled the warmth between his hands.

“Ta,” he said, watching the steam curl off of the tea.

“So,” John said. “Do you have a case for us?”

Lestrade forced a pleasant expression. “Yes, actually, it’s-”

“The final divorce papers came in today,” Sherlock cut in, and Greg felt his heart plummet. John sucked in a sharp breath, but Sherlock continued before the doctor could say anything.

“You haven’t been home for more than a few minutes in at least a week- sleeping at the Yard, shaving in their bathroom. Your clothes are more rumpled than normal. You’re no longer wearing your wedding ring. I don’t understand why you’re surprised or upset- the proceedings have been going on for months now, and you’ve known for longer that the marriage wasn’t going to last. She cheated on you, multiple times. She thinks you bury yourself in work to avoid problems and probably that you’re too dependent on me to solve cases. She thinks you’re not masculine enough. She was quite a witch, from what I remember of her. You should be thankful to be free of her.”

Greg felt like he couldn’t breathe, and cleared his throat in an attempt to calm himself. A quick glance out of the corner of his eye showed that Sherlock was still laying down, though his head was now turned to face Lestrade, eyes piercing.

Greg squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then set his mug of tea down on the coffee table and stood. “Right. You know, now that I think about it,” he said to John, a splintered smile on his face, “the case is probably a bit boring for you two.”

John halfway stood from his chair, but Greg ignored the attempt at comfort as he crossed the room and grabbed his coat, sliding his arms into the sleeves. “Really, it’s quite dull. Thanks for the tea, though. I’ll um-” he swallowed past the lump in his throat, “I’ll see you around.”

The sound of the door shutting behind him and his feet clattering down the stairs were drowned out by the thoughts in his head clamoring for attention, but as he turned the key in the ignition of his car and pulled out into traffic, Greg could only focus on one:

How could he do that? Why?

Chapter Text

Greg held the key in one hand, shopping in the other, staring at the door of his flat, a plain, simple white door with a peephole at eye level. The flat was in the same neighbourhood as his old one, and a sense of deja vu had come over him as he drove through the familiar streets. The movers had come in the day before, but this was the first time that he’d actually been there.

As he stood there, Greg’s phone vibrated, and he pulled it out with reluctance, opening the text message.

This is ridiculous. -SH

Greg sighed and rubbed his eyes. After leaving Baker Street a few days ago in the aftermath of Sherlock’s deductions, he’d gone back to the crime scene, shoving down his emotions while he navigated traffic. Donovan hadn’t asked, simply gave him an update and Lestrade had followed her lead, not speaking about a certain consulting detective’s absence as they solved the case. The first text had come a few hours after he’d fled 221B, and periodically since:

John has informed me I may have hurt your feelings. Is he telling the truth? -SH

If so, I don’t understand why. -SH

Lestrade? -SH

I’ll take the case. -SH

I apologize if I offended you. But I’m right. -SH

Dammit Lestrade, answer me. -SH

Please. -SH

It wasn’t that Greg was trying to punish Sherlock, or was ignoring him out of spite. But every time he read one of the texts, he got a sick feeling in his stomach, and he couldn’t think of anything to say in reply. So he just read them.

After he stuffed his mobile back into his pocket, Greg slid the key into the lock and opened the door, stepping in to the- his - flat for the first time. It was fairly barren, since Brianna had taken most of the furniture from their house. But there was a couch, and an armchair, and he’d gotten a bed and telly the other day, had them delivered. He and his wife had had a large selection of kitchen appliances, so Greg hadn’t worried about that; the boxes of his things sat in the living room. Fortunately, the flat came with a refrigerator, washer, and dryer, which meant three less things he’d have to buy.

For the most part, though, the place felt...empty. He’d forgotten how it felt, moving in to a new place, trying to make your things fit into a new space. It certainly feels more lonely this time around. Throwing his coat on the couch he made his way into the small kitchen; a small window was positioned over the sink, giving him a view of the street. He’d have to buy a table, to sit at. And probably a coffee table, too.

He sighed, then set down the bag of shopping and pulled out the tea. Realising he’d need a kettle to boil water with, and a mug to put the tea in, he cursed under his breath and went out to the living room, where he opened the box labeled “Kitchen”. A sense of relief filled him when the kettle and mugs were some of the first things in the box, pulled them out, and walked back into the kitchen.

Once his tea was steeped, Greg sat on the couch and drank it slowly, savouring the flavour of the hot liquid as it slid down his throat. The heat collected in his stomach, helping him relax and try to let go of the stress from the past few days. His eyelids grew heavy, and with a yawn Greg set the tea mug off to the side on the floor and stretched out on the couch, closing his eyes and letting sleep overtake him for the first time in a long time.

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock growled, pacing the sitting room of 221B, arms clasped behind his back. At his frustrated statement, though, his hands came up to grip his hair as he whirled to face John, who was reading the paper in his chair. “It’s been days. Why hasn’t he replied?”

John looked at him mildly over the edge of the newspaper. “Probably because he isn’t ready to yet.”

Sherlock scoffed. “‘Ready yet’? What does that even mean?” Muttering to himself, Sherlock flopped onto the couch, arms crossed. “I don’t understand.” The words came out as if they were poison- knowing his flatmate, John thought, they probably were.

John set aside the newspaper with a sigh, resigned to the fact that Sherlock would continue to ask him until John answered.

“People,” he began, and Sherlock snorted in derision. John shot him a look, then continued.

“Most people- people who aren’t you- get offended or hurt when people say things like ‘you should be happy your wife cheated on you and that you’ve finally been divorced; oh and by the way, she thought you weren’t manly enough’.”

“So you’ve been saying since Lestrade left,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Right. But for normal people, it takes a while, Sherlock.”

“A while for what?” Sherlock demanded. “No wonder I don’t understand. Your explanations are depressingly vague.”

“It takes a while to get over something like that,” John said patiently. “Greg’s probably been hearing your words- which were quite hurtful, by the way, if you haven’t gotten that yet - on replay inside his head for the past few days. He’s probably angry, hurt, or a combination of both. You have to give him time to sort out what he’s feeling.”

Sherlock looked dissatisfied, but finally spoke. “So...you’re saying I just- what, wait?”

John considered his flatmate for a moment. “Yes. You do. Maybe send him a text now and then, just to let him know that you’re wondering about him, but other than that. Let him choose when he wants to interact with you again,” he finished, then smiled softly. “He’ll probably call the next time there’s a case, same as always.”

Greg shivered as he walked through the parking garage, his steps echoing loudly in the large space, mostly empty at this time of night. He’d finally finished up some paperwork around ten, and had been surprised to find that it was pretty damn cold outside, a culture shock compared to the constant heat of the Yard. So he’d shoved his hands into his coat pockets and kept his head down, walking quickly to the parking garage and up to the first floor where he’d parked his car.

As Lestrade turned the key in his car door, listening to the locks click open, the back of his neck tingled with the sensation of being watched, and he turned to face the rest of the garage. Behind him was a man, broad-shouldered and wearing a plain black hoodie, his buzz cut making his face look more fierce than it would otherwise.

“Detective Inspector,” the man greeted with a sneer, and Greg felt his blood run cold as he realised that this man was not there with anything resembling a good intention.

“What do you want?” Greg asked, and he was glad to find that his voice did not tremble.

The man smiled, cold and sharp, like a knife. “Revenge,” he said, and reached into the large pocket of his jacket, pulling out a gun.

The last completely coherent thing Greg could think before his ears were deafened by the bang of the gun and all of his senses were taken over by pain pain pain was I am so fucked.

Sherlock startled from his position- on the couch, staring at the ceiling, hands steepled against his lips- at the sound of his mobile going off. Swinging up into a sitting position, he snatched the phone from the coffee table as John continued reading in his armchair. Standing gracefully, Sherlock hit the Accept Call button without even glancing at the caller’s name and held the mobile to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Sh’lck?” someone slurred, and Sherlock went cold as the familiar voice reached his ear. Tension mounting quickly, he looked at John as he replied.

“Lestrade?” John glanced up and caught his eye at the DI’s name. Or perhaps it was because of the note of fear in his voice.

“Sh’lock. Glad you p’cked up…..know you dn’t like t’ talk,” Lestrade got out.

“Where are you? What happened?” Sherlock snapped into the receiver. His heart was pounding in his chest.

“P’king garage. Got….” Lestrade trailed off.

“Got what, Lestrade?” Sherlock demanded.

“Shot. S’okay though. A’ready called….nine nine nine. B’t...c’ld feel it. N’t gonna make….there’s so mu’ blood.”

“No. No, Lestrade. Lestrade. You cannot,” Sherlock said frantically, crossing the sitting room and pulling open the door. John was asking questions behind him, but all Sherlock could manage was a terse “Lestrade’s been shot. Parking garage.” before he refocused on the man on the other end of the tenuous connection of the phone line.

“You cannot die, Lestrade,” Sherlock said desperately. “Dammit, you idiot, why did you go and get yourself shot? Lestrade!”

“S’okay, Sh’lck. Jus’ wanted you t’ know….not mad, about th’ divorce thing. ‘m still your friend,” Lestrade said, and then the line went dead.

Chapter Text

Sherlock stared at the mobile in his hand, mind spinning. No. Not Lestrade. Please.

“Sherlock.” John’s voice and soft tug on the shoulder of his suit jacket pulled him back to Baker Street, where a cab was waiting for them. Without saying thank you to John for hailing the taxi- or did I do that? Irrelevant.- Sherlock slid into the backseat and snapped out their destination to the driver.

“Car park on Greycoat Street. Quickly as possible.” Then, Sherlock opened the contacts on his phone, scrolling until he found the one he wanted and hit Call. He listened to the ringing with barely concealed desperation.

“‘ello?” Donovan answered, and Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat at the sound of her voice.

“Donovan,” he said quickly. “For once in your life, listen to me.”

“Freak?” Donovan asked, confused and affronted. “How the bloody hell did you get-”

“That’s not important right now!” Sherlock hissed. “Are you still at the Yard?”

“I don’t-”

“Are you still at the Yard?”

“I- yes.”

“Good. I need you to go to the parking garage on Greycoat. No, stop, don’t argue, listen to me. Lestrade’s been shot. He just called me, but the call disconnected. I need you to go over there, now. John and I are in a cab.”

“Oh Jesus,” Donovan breathed, and Sherlock could hear her scrambling in the background. “Okay, I’m heading over there. Christ- I swear to God, Holmes, if this is one of your experiments-”

“It isn’t. Just get to the car park. John and I will meet you there,” Sherlock growled, then disconnected and hit Mycroft’s speed dial. As the phone rang again- why the hell do people let their phones go for so long?- Sherlock looked at the cab driver in the rear view mirror.

“How long?”

“About 5 minutes,” came the calm reply, and he opened his mouth to interrogate the cabbie if he understood what exactly was going on, that Lestrade had been shot, but before he could get the words out, Mycroft picked up.

“Sherlock. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Not now, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, and if he had been more focused, more objective, if it had been anyone other than Lestrade, he would have despaired at the vulnerability in his words. “Lestrade’s been shot.”

Sherlock could feel his brother’s vague interest in Sherlock’s call turn into sharp focus, full attention on his words. “What do you need?”

“He said he called Emergency Services. I don’t know if they’ve already picked him up, but I need you to find out. I need doctors, a private room at a hospital- St Thomas’ is closest.”

“Done,” Mycroft replied, and Sherlock’s thank you was in the short second of silence before he ended the call.

When they  got to the car park, the ambulance had already been there and gone, but Donovan  was taking over the scene, barking out orders and generally looking competent and in control. But she isn’t, I see the way that her gaze keeps straying to the pool of blood on the pavement. She isn’t any more in control than I am.

Sherlock forced himself to stay, to not jump in another cab and go to St Thomas’. Lestrade was going into surgery, Donovan had informed them, and Sherlock knew he would be more useful at the scene of the crime. So he would stay and learn what he could about the shooter, try to shove down the thoughts that kept bubbling up, though some of them still leaked through.

This is Lestrade’s blood. It never should have left his veins.

Remember when he let me stay at his flat? I was confused, didn’t understand why he did that. I still don’t.

John, whether it was out of shock or the ability to sense that Sherlock was completely past being able to hold a conversation, was quiet, staying a few steps behind him in a display of worry but otherwise remaining unobtrusive. Sherlock swept through the evidence, finally turning to Donovan, who, for once, listened attentively as he spoke.

“This was premeditated, but not very well planned,” he began, and cleared his throat when his voice came out ragged. “Judging by the shell casing, a nine millimeter. Check recent sales. Close range, less than ten feet. Lestrade was alone, so he was probably specifically targeted.” He stole another look at the place were Lestrade had been shot, ignoring the way his stomach rolled. “This was personal. Considering his job, I’d look at people he’s convicted. Wait-” Sherlock turned away and clenched his eyes shut, pressing the tips of his fingers into his eye sockets. No, something about that isn’t right...what, though? Think, dammit. If Lestrade’s killer no, shooter- wait. Killer. Lestrade works homicide, it wouldn’t be someone he’s convicted, more likely it's-

“It’s a relative,” he burst out, twisting around to face Donovan again. “A relative of someone Lestrade caught. Probably male, both the relative and criminal. Recently. Look at vicious crimes- not your normal run-of-the-mill murder, this one would have been full of rage and mutilation.”

Donovan nodded as she wrote in her notebook. “Okay. We’ll call  you if we have anything.”

“No,” Sherlock said viciously. “You can’t put me in the backseat for this one!”

Donovan looked up and was ready to respond when another voice cut in.

“You are sick,” Anderson said with a sneer from behind them. “This is just another case, another puzzle, to you, isn’t it? Do you even care that it’s Lestrade, you psycho?”

Sherlock rounded on Anderson and, in the blink of an eye, had him shoved against a patrol car, arm pressed against the man’s throat.

“Don’t you dare,” Sherlock snarled. “Say that this is just another case. I am fully aware that it was Lestrade who nearly bled out on that piece of pavement over there. I think the question is, Anderson, do you even care that your boss could still die on the operating table?” Anderson’s fingers were scrambling at Sherlock’s forearm, and the consulting detective pressed down for a moment, letting Anderson feel his air supply being blocked off before releasing him and locking eyes with Donovan.

“Let me stay on the case,” he said lowly. “At least until he’s out of surgery.”

Donovan nodded, eyes wide, and Sherlock began to question her on Lestrade’s recent cases.

Hours later, they’d narrowed it down to two or three suspects when the call came in. Sherlock’s ring tone cut through the heavy silence in the conference room where case files were spread out along the table, and Sherlock wildly snatched it off the table.

“Yes,” he answered.

Mycroft abandoned pleasantries as well. “He’s out of surgery.”

“And?”

“It’s a good chance that he’ll live. Bullet narrowly avoided his lungs, didn’t nick any major arteries. There was a great deal of blood loss, from both the internal and external bleeding, but they’ve got him on a transfusion.”

Something in Sherlock loosened in relief as Mycroft’s words registered in his mind. He’ll live.

“I’ve put you on the visitor list,” Mycroft was saying. “You’ll have unhampered access.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Of course,” Mycroft responded, and hung up.

Sherlock looked up at the conference room to find Donovan and John watching him, worry plain on their faces. “He’s out of surgery. They think he’ll make it.”

At his words, Donovan slumped in relief, and John lightly touched Sherlock’s wrist in a gesture of support before letting go.

“Can you handle the rest of this on your own?” I have to go see him. Donovan looked up at him at his words, an odd expression on her face, but she nodded.

“Yeah. I’ll let you when we’ve got him.”

Sherlock nodded, and strode quickly out of the room, each step punctuated by the same thought: He’s going to live.

Sherlock stood outside Lestrade’s hospital room, an unidentifiable feeling clenching in his chest. John was behind him, and Sherlock looked at his friend over his shoulder as he spoke.

“I think. I have to do this by myself.”

John nodded, a worn, small smile on his face. “I know. I’ll be in the cafeteria,” he said, and walked down the hall. Sherlock watched until he turned the corner before facing the door again. With a deep breath, he twisted the knob in his hand, and stepped inside.

Lestrade was lying a plain white hospital bed, hooked up to a ventilator and IV. The machines beeped quietly in the background, a continuous assurance of life. There was a window on the far right wall, and if Sherlock had bothered to look out the glass he would have seen London, slowly being brought awake by the sunrise. Quietly, slowly, Sherlock stepped into the dimly lit room, closing the door behind him. There was a chair by the bedside, and Sherlock collapsed onto it, turning a critical, concerned eye to the man in the bed.

Lestrade had never, in all the years Sherlock had known him, looked so old. He’d looked constantly tired, and there was often bags under his eyes and a weary note in his steps. But as Sherlock studied him, lying there in the sterile white hospital room, the detective inspector looked frail, and the grey in his hair lacked its usual luster.

As Sherlock sat there, his hands itched with the desire to touch Lestrade, to confirm with as many senses as possible that Lestrade was there, breathing, with blood pumping through his veins and neurons sending synapses. The urge crawled under Sherlock’s skin and settled under his heart, making it hammer with fear until he finally reached out and ran his fingers through Lestrade’s hair.

It was as if a switch flicked off in his mind. The soft texture of the silver strands under Sherlock’s hands appeased the need to touch, and his heartbeat slowed, replaced with calm.

“You’re fine,” Sherlock whispered into the semi-dark, speaking to himself as much as he was Lestrade. You’re fine.

Chapter Text

“...my hostage!”

Sherlock Holmes was holding a gun to John Watson’s head. As he registered this, Lestrade dropped his head into his hands with an internal groan. Oh Christ.The past several hours had been utter hell- between Donovan and Anderson dragging Sherlock’s name through the mud, Sherlock not seeming to care at all, and finally being forced to climb the steps to 221B with a pair of handcuffs in hand, Lestrade was exhausted, frustrated, and more than a bit sick to his stomach.

The Chief Superintendent was yelling at him now (“Get after him, Lestrade!”), so Greg reluctantly ran after Donovan- and God, how he wanted to shake the sergeant, ask her what the hell she was thinking, leading this crucifixion- in pursuit of the two madmen.

“I hope you know, Lestrade,” the Chief Superintendent said darkly from behind his desk, “What an idiot you’ve been.” There was still a few specks of dried blood under his nose; seeing them gave Lestrade a small sense of satisfaction.

“No, sir,” he answered. “Would you care to explain?”

It was worth the sarcastic response to see the Superintendent’s face turn color, a deep shade of red that, in Greg’s opinion, made him resemble a tomato.

“All of your cases will come under scrutiny! It’s likely you’ll lose your job!”

Lestrade shrugged, affecting nonchalance, despite his worry that there was truth to the other man's words. “If my cases do come under investigation, it won’t matter,” he replied calmly. “The evidence is solid, the convictions justified. There isn’t a man I’ve put in jail that doesn’t belong there. And,” he emphasized, “an investigation would be in my favour, considering it would show that Sherlock Holmes is not the man you think he is,” Greg finished. “He is a much better one.”

The Superintendent spluttered in anger for a moment before finally speaking. “You are on administrative leave for an unspecified amount of time, Lestrade. Get out of my office.”

Greg turned and left without acknowledging him, head held high. The door shut behind him with a clatter, and Donovan looked up from her chair in the hall, an inquisitive expression on her face.

“How’d it go?”

“I don’t want to talk to you right now, Sergeant,” Lestrade said stiffly, and started down the hall. A hand on his shoulder made him pause though, and he turned to look at Donovan.

“I don’t understand,” she said, frustrated, “why you’re still sticking with him. He doesn’t deserve it, Guv. He’s a fake!”

Greg shrugged away angrily. “He isn’t, Donovan! Have you completely forgotten how he helped you catch the man who shot me?”

Donovan looked at him. “Who’s to say he didn’t plan that too?”

Lestrade saw red for a second, and stared at Donovan in disgust and shock. “You know he didn’t, Donovan. I know he didn’t. Sherlock Holmes isn’t a fake, and I’ll keep saying so until everyone finally listens,” he snapped, and turned away, speeding up his pace.

He had just slammed the door of his flat behind him when his phone vibrated. Greg felt his heart pick up speed, and he slowly pulled the mobile out of his pocket to open the message.

Goodbye. -SH

Lestrade read the word again, and his worry was replaced with confusion. Goodbye? What does that mean? Was Sherlock leaving England? He didn’t want to admit it, but the thought put an uncomfortable feeling in his chest- it would be strange, never seeing Sherlock swan onto a crime scene again.

It’s probably for the best though, he told himself. At least until this whole thing blows over. Once Sherlock’s name had been cleared, once it was safe to return, he’d surely come back. Comforted by that thought, Greg closed his mobile and walked into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

As the tea steeped, his phone rang, and Greg answered without glancing at the caller ID.

“Hello?”

“Greg?” John gasped from the other end. “Oh God, Greg.”Lestrade immediately sat up straight in his chair, attentive.

“John? What’s going on? Has Sherlock been arrested?”

“No,” John whispered quietly. “No. Sherlock...Sherlock is dead.”

“What?” Greg’s gut dropped in horror. No.

“He- he jumped, from the roof, St Bart’s-” John choked out. “I tried to stop him but-”

John’s words dimmed in the face of the maelstrom of thoughts screaming in Greg’s head. Sherlock. Sherlock is dead. No. It can’t be, he just texted me-

Goodbye.

Goodbye. He was saying goodbye. Oh God. No, please, no.

“Greg?” John was asking, and Lestrade tried to answer.

“Yeah, I’ll be there, just a few minutes,” he got out, then hung up.

Greg exhaled shakily, wiping his mouth and scooting away from the toilet, trying to get the smell of vomit out of his nose. He moved backwards until his back hit the wall, and pulled his knees up to his chest. His heart was pounding wildly, and he could feel tears welling up in the corner of his eyes, though none of them fell.

I’m sorry, he thought, staring up at the single fluorescent light. Christ, Sherlock. I’m so sorry.

He should have done more. Should have fought against Donovan and Anderson more, should have persuaded the Superintendent that they were wrong, that Sherlock wasn’t a criminal mastermind, that it was Jim Moriarty. He should have replied to Sherlock’s text.

At the thought of that single word, Goodbye, a strangled sob made it’s way out of Greg’s throat, and his chest heaved. What would have happened if he’d replied, if he’d realised what Sherlock was really saying? What if he’d called? Could he have done what John couldn’t, made Sherlock step away from the ledge?

John. At the thought of Sherlock’s friend, who’d watched him jump, who was waiting for Greg to arrive at St Bart’s, Lestrade hauled himself off the tiled floor of his bathroom, supporting himself on the counter when his legs trembled as he stood. He flushed the toilet, and bent over the sink to wash his face off. Without looking in the mirror (he didn’t want to see what he looked like, or the utter heartbreak on his face), he quickly brushed his teeth to get rid of the lingering taste of sick out of his mouth.

He pulled on his coat like a piece of armour, and spent another moment floundering in grief before he forced himself to push it away, his face an impassive mask. John needs you now, he instructed himself as the door shut behind him. Don’t let him down, like you did Sherlock.

Chapter Text

“Let me see the body.”

Molly looked at him, indecision plain on her face. “Greg, are you sure that-”

“Yes,” Greg said, speaking over her, and then paused and took a deep breath. “Yes,” he repeated, quieter this time. “John...John had to see him jump. This is the least I can do.”

Molly was still for another moment, then nodded slightly and led him into the morgue. The air was slightly cold. The chrome and white fixtures gleamed menacingly in the bright light of the room- in the center, at one of the examination tables, a white sheet covered a body. When they reached it, Molly gripped the cloth and pulled it down, revealing Sherlock’s face.

Agony ripped through Greg. Oh God. Some part of him had hoped, had believed that maybe, maybe Sherlock wasn’t dead. If there was a single person who could fake it…But he hadn’t. Sherlock Holmes had really jumped from the roof, and Greg was now looking at his dead body, with a bloody head wound and an abnormal angle to the neck.

Greg pressed a hand to his mouth, unsure of what would come out if he tried to speak, and turned away. Pull yourself together. You have to. For John, and everyone else you failed when you didn’t do more for Sherlock.

The only thing Lestrade was thankful for as he turned back to Molly was that someone had closed Sherlock’s eyes. Looking into the dead orbs that had once been full of light would have been too much, even for him.

The service was awful. There were too many flowers, and it was in a church that the Sherlock Greg knew would never have stepped foot in, unless some kind of brutal crime had been committed. As Lestrade sat in the stiff, uncomfortable pew, the same thought kept running through his head. This isn’t him. In truth, Greg didn’t know why he’d come; Sherlock was gone, and Greg would rather work his way through the bottle of Scotch in his kitchen until he passed out in a drunken stupor. (That was the only way, these days, that he didn’t wake up covered in sweat, his heart pounding in terror.)

But he had come, so he stayed, sitting there trying not to jump up and scream at them all that none of this was how Sherlock would have wanted things, that he would have scoffed at them all for being so sentimental. When the last solemn words had been said, Lestrade made his way out of the church as quickly as possible, without looking at the casket and “paying his respects.” He wouldn’t hear anything I have to say, anyway.

The sky was cloudy, a sprinkle of rain coming down from the heavens. Greg’s breath turned white when he exhaled, and he watched it dissipate. He was alone for a few minutes, but the sound of the church door closing alerted him to another person. Slowly, Lestrade turned his head to see John walking out, stopping when he stood beside Greg.

“I. I don’t know what to say.”

John looked at him sadly from where he was standing by Lestrade on the front steps. He looked as tired as Greg felt, with deep bags under his eyes and a weariness that weaved into every movement. “Neither do I.”

Greg studied the stone underneath his feet for a long moment, then dug out the now ever-present pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Want a smoke?”

John contemplated the cigarette, eyes flicking back and forth between it and Lestrade as they stood there, shivering and damp from the rain. “Sure.”

“And we have found Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade innocent of any illegal or immoral actions, which has led to his reinstatement and the restoration of his position. The investigation of Sherlock Holmes is still under way, but we are confident that the truth will come out in the end.”

The lights were bright, blazing down on Lestrade from all direction as he sat at the booth used for press conferences. He was wearing his best suit, even though it was uncomfortable and scratchy and his own interest in the proceedings was minimal. The Chief Superintendent was leaning forward in his speak to meet the microphone, his words being amplified into the crowd and recorded by half a dozen different news stations.

“We will now be taking questions,” the Superintendent stated, and the reporters torn in like piranhas during a feeding frenzy.

“Detective Inspector, do you still hold the belief that Sherlock Holmes was not a fraud?”
“How far are you into the investigation of Sherlock Holmes?”

“How does it feel to be back on the force?”

Lestrade raised a hand for quiet, then cleared his throat. To him, his voice was overly loud as he spoke.

“I am, of course, happy and thankful that the Metropolitan Police has seen fit to keep me on their payroll; I look forward to reuniting with my team, working on cases again. I am not involved in the Sherlock Holmes investigation- for information on that you will have to look to the Chief Superintendent.” Greg took a deep breath and continued. “To the other question, however, the answer is quite simple: I have never-” he looked out to the crowd, trying to infuse as much sincerity into his words as possible, “held the belief that Sherlock Holmes was anything other than a very genuine man who had an amazing brain. I was very fortunate in being able to work with him, and I am certain that the Yard’s inquiries will prove this to be true.” With a nod, Lestrade said a quick thank you and moved back from the microphone.

The rest of the press conference passed in a blur of faces and words as Greg tried to control his breathing, made ragged by the pressing grief in his chest.

London is a graveyard. Greg didn’t know where the thought came from, but standing outside St Bart’s for the first time in the six months since Sherlock’s suicide, he decided it was an apt description of the city. Everywhere he went, Sherlock’s memory followed, a wispy apparition in the corner of his eye. When he’d arrived at his first crime scene since his reinstatement that morning, he’d found himself thinking Sherlock would like this one. When Lestrade realised he’d already pulled out his mobile, ready to text the consulting detective, the air in his lungs had left in a painful exhale.

Now, he was across the street from Bart’s, ready to walk into the morgue and ask for an update on the autopsy. But Greg’s gaze refused to move from the patch of sidewalk where Sherlock’s blood had stained the concrete.

“You coming, Guv?” Donovan asked him, already walking to the corner, and Lestrade was pulled out of his daze.

“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Let’s go.”

Why does missing you still hurt so much?

Chapter Text

“Those things’ll kill you.”

Greg paused, flame just centimetres from the cigarette. No. Yes? No. It can’t be. He could feel his heart skip a beat as a remembered voice from years past made it’s way to his ears once again. Slowly he turned, and there it was, in the corner of his eye- that damned coat, swaying around an all-too-familiar silhouette.

“Oh, you bastard,” he said roughly and turned all the way around. Sherlock was walking out of the shadows.

“It’s time to come back,” Sherlock said, and God he hasn’t changed at all, has he? “You’ve been letting thing slide, Graham.”

“Greg,” Lestrade said sharply, though there wasn’t any real heat to the words.

“Greg,” Sherlock replied, with a small movement of his eyebrows.

Oh my God. Greg stood there, in the middle of a car park after an eighteen hour shift at the Yard, having a conversation with Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, who had been the one man who could fake it, and Greg should probably be mad at him, but in the end elation and relief won out as he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders.

Sherlock made a surprised sound, but Greg refused to let go, tightening his hold. The sensory details were all the same; Sherlock’s coat was still simultaneously rough and soft, and he still smelled like a mixture of chemicals and cologne. Lestrade could feel the knot of guilt and grief in his chest, the one he’d carried around for two years, start to unravel as Sherlock’s body heat and calm breathing continued to confirm that the detective was really there.

“You are an absolute idiot,” he said as he finally pulled back. Sherlock looked at him for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to be offended, then smiled slightly.

“Perhaps so,” he agreed, and Greg chuckled in response.

“Have you told John?” Greg asked, holding his coffee cup between his hands in an attempt to warm them. He and Sherlock were sitting at a corner table in a small coffee shop not far from the Yard, mostly empty this time of night. Sherlock looked distinctly out of place and uncomfortable in the brightly lit space with windows on almost every wall, and Lestrade hoped that talking about the other man’s friend would help him relax.

I guess not, Greg thought when Sherlock winced and looked down in something that could’ve been embarrassment.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “He...did not take to it well.” Continuing to keep his gaze down, Sherlock took a sip from his coffee, and Lestrade felt a small sliver of sadness pass through him. John was such a big part of Sherlock’s life, before- his best friend.

“I’m sure he’ll come around, given time,” he told Sherlock gently. “You know how he is.”

Sherlock brought his head up sharply, catching Lestrade’s eye. “But I don’t, Lestrade,” he said, matter of fact. “I’ve been away two years. I can read, see, observe most of it,” he waved a hand at Greg, “but the emotions,” the hand smacked down onto the wood tabletop, “the emotions continue to baffle me.”

Instinctively, Greg reached out and covered Sherlock’s fingertips, and didn’t move them away when Sherlock looked at him, confused.

“Do you remember what I told you, the first time John and you had a real row?” Greg asked, and answered before Sherlock could respond. “I told you, John is the kind of friend that lasts. And he’ll come back. Promise.”

“You never left. Not once,” Sherlock said lowly.

Greg shrugged and slid his hand away, taking ahold of his coffee instead. “I guess I just can’t help myself.”

Greg awoke with a strangled gasp, sweating and terrified. The sheets were twisted around his legs, and he sighed to himself as he sat up against the headboard of his bed. Jesus. He’d hoped that now Sherlock was back, the nightmares would stop, but that was clearly not the case.

They’d started shortly after the consulting detective’s fall- dreams of Greg being the one watching him jump, whether from the street like John did or from the roof, the tip of Sherlock’s coat sliding from his grip. Tonight, Greg had dreamed that Sherlock’s bones were walking around London, demanding that Lestrade give him a decent murder.

Shuddering, Greg hauled himself out of bed and walked into his kitchen, flicking on a light and filling the kettle with water for tea. When he saw his mobile on the kitchen table, some impulse pulled him to the phone, typing out a quick text.

How does it feel being back in Baker Street?

The reply was almost instantaneous, his phone vibrating with the message.

Like home. But also odd. -SH

You’re always welcome here, if you ever need it.

Was that an invitation? -SH

If you like.

After the last text, Greg set down the mobile and waited for the kettle to boil, somewhat calmer out of the reach of his subconscious.

Sherlock, surprisingly, knocked on the door when he arrived. (There had been times in the past, when he’d just decided to pick Lestrade’s locks, claiming it was “more efficient”.) Greg stood slowly, and walked to the door, turning the deadbolt and pulling it open.

Sherlock looked pale under Greg’s porch light, still wearing a suit and his customary coat. Lestrade stepped back, letting Sherlock pass him.

“Hello,” Greg said.

Sherlock ignored him and let his eyes sweep across the room, probably noting all the changes Lestrade (hadn’t) made in the time he’d been gone. “You’re making tea.”

Greg smiled to himself. “Already made you a cuppa.”

Sherlock glanced at him, trying to hide his shock, but covered it by hanging up his coat and flopping onto the couch. “Good. Then you won’t mind bringing it over here,” he said lazily, wiggling his fingers in the direction of the kitchen.

Greg laughed softly and went to get the tea, his reply unspoken for fear of Sherlock reading too much into it. (Though if he were honest with himself, there was more truth to the words than Greg had ever expected.)

I’d do anything for you.

Chapter Text

“Didn’t go to any trouble, did you?” Sherlock’s face was open and unassuming, completely unaware of how he’d almost given Greg a heart attack with his texts. The sound of the helicopter outside grew louder, and Sherlock turned to the window just in time to see the sheet music on his stand going flying to the floor.

Lestrade rolled his eyes, still breathing hard, and tried to ignore the embarrassment taking over his panic. “Right,” he sighed, and raised his index finger, indicating he needed a minute. “Let me just….” he trailed off and opened his mobile to call off the backup.

“Kyle? Yeah, listen, we’re fine up here.”

“What?” Kyle’s voice was booming, probably because he was speaking over the chopper’s engine.

“I don’t need the backup,” Lestrade said, louder. “False alarm.”

There was a confused silence from the other end, but Kyle finally replied. “Alright, Lestrade. We’ll pull out.”

“Good. Ta for coming out on short notice like that,” Lestrade answered, then ended the call. Sherlock was looking at him, confusion still written in the downward tilt to his brows.

“You thought...I was in danger,” he said, though it came out as a question.

“Brilliant deduction, that,” Greg said dryly, collapsing into a chair. Might as well stay, since I broke half a dozen traffic laws to get here. “Not important. Funny stories about John, you said?”

Sherlock looked as if he wanted to ask more, but after a minute of weighing the situation, picked up How to Write an Unforgettable Best Man’s Speech again. “Anecdotes, yes. Something recent.”

Greg groaned and let his head fall back onto the cushions, slumping on the couch and rubbing his eyes. “This isn’t working,” he sighed.

“Well why not?” Sherlock demanded. “We followed the instructions.”

Lestrade sat up and pulled the paper from Sherlock’s hand, putting a finger to the page and reading out what Sherlock had typed. “‘John is the bestest friend I’ve ever had, I want him to be happy foreva.’ It’s cloyingly sweet. That’s not you, Sherlock.”

“You’re misquoting me!” Sherlock griped. “That’s not what I said!”

“You might as well have- that’s what it sounds like,” Lestrade replied, slamming the paper onto the coffee table.

Sherlock threw his arms up in the air. “You’re useless.”

“Yeah well you aren’t exactly a ray of sunshine yourself.” At Greg’s statement, Sherlock’s face grew stormy and he pulled his knees to his chest. Lestrade groaned internally at the sign of a sulk. What to do? He knew that Sherlock could write a best man’s speech; the consulting detective was a competent writer, and it wasn’t that Sherlock didn’t know what to say. The damn book is just-

Oh. Mind made up, Lestrade took the book from where it was sitting on the desk and stepped closer to the open window before tossing it out. Then, he picked up the paper and ripped it in two, letting the pieces float down onto the coffee table.

Sherlock was looking at him with a frown. “What are you doing?”

Greg sat down on the couch again, closer to Sherlock this time, and pulled the other man’s feet out until Sherlock was no longer curled in on himself.

“What do you want to say to John?” Greg asked. “What would you say if he was here right now?”

Sherlock’s answer came rapid-fire. “That marriage is a useless institution that in no way guarantees a partner for life, and love is a ridiculous word for a set of chemicals released within the body.”

Greg smiled slightly. “And after all that, Sunshine? What do you really want to say to him?”

Sherlock looked poleaxed, mouth open as if he wanted to respond but was unsure of what he desired to say. “That…” he began, then trailed off. “That he is my best friend, and he should be happy.”

“There you go,” Lestrade said simply. “Then that’s what you write about. Both what you want to say, and what you want to say.”

“Why not just the second?”

“Because that wouldn’t be very much like you, would it?” Greg answered, and stood up. “Go on, write up a draft. I’ll make some tea.”

“You,” Lestrade said, pointing at the wedding-photographer-who-was-apparently-an-almost-murderer, “have ruined my evening.” Greg shoved the man into the back of his car, but left the door open as he leaned against the boot. Greg’s hand went into his pocket, automatically reaching for his fags, and swore when he remembered he hadn’t brought any. “S’pose I’ll have to drop you off without having a smoke first,” he sighed, slammed the back door closed, and walked over to the driver’s side. Just as Greg was starting up the engine, the passenger door opened and Sherlock slid into the car.

Greg looked at him, one eyebrow raised. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“You’ll need my statement at the Yard; my role at the wedding was finished. Figured I’d save you the trouble of hunting me down in a few days,” Sherlock said crisply, staring out the windshield.

“This guy’s coming along?” the man in the back objected, and Lestrade turned around to shoot him a glare.

“Yes,” he said. “Now shut up.”

“That was exceedingly dull,” Sherlock complained as they exited the Yard.

“Yeah well,” Lestrade replied, “it was your idea.”

Sherlock huffed and pulled his coat closer around him to ward off the sharp chill in the air. “I thoroughly regret that lapse in judgement.”

Greg looked over at the other man, and the expression of disapproval and exasperation on Sherlock’s face made laughter bubble up in his chest and out into the night. “You’re ridiculous, Sunshine, you know that?”

“You keep calling me that.”

Lestrade backtracked over what he’d said, then realised with a small amount of embarrassment that it was true. “Sorry. I’ll stop.”

“I didn’t say I minded,” Sherlock replied, and when Greg looked at him, Sherlock glanced away. A warm, soft feeling filled his chest, and the two of them were quiet, simply walking side by side with their shoulders occasionally brushing, until they reached Lestrade’s car.

“So,” Greg said as he unlocked the doors. “Need a ride back to Baker Street?”

Sherlock didn’t reply, and when Lestrade looked up at him, the consultant fidgeted, pulling at his coat sleeve. “Or we could go back to your flat,” he said, gaze downwards.

What? Sherlock had never expressed a fondness for Lestrade’s flat in the past. Maybe Baker Street’s a bit lonely, without John. Must take some getting used to, living alone again, and the wedding probably didn't help. In response to Sherlock’s suggestion, Greg nodded and opened the car door. “Sure.”

Sherlock always looked slightly larger than life in Lestrade’s flat- took up more space than he usually did. Greg didn’t mind though; for the most part, his flat always felt too empty. Pushing open the front door and flicking on the light for the living room, Greg turned to hang up his coat.

“I don’t know what you want to do,” he admitted to Sherlock, who was also shedding his coat.

Sherlock paused, considering the implied question. “What would you be doing if I wasn’t here?”

Lestrade shrugged. “Watching telly, I suppose. Having a cuppa.”

Sherlock nodded decisively. “Then we’ll do that. I’ll just,” he gestured vaguely. “Read a book or something.”

“Um. Okay,” Greg said, and started walking toward the kitchen. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

When he returned with two mugs of tea, Sherlock was standing in front of the bookshelf, arms clasped behind his back as he read the titles. “You have an odd selection of reading material,” Sherlock remarked, and took the proffered tea with a nod of thanks.

Greg shrugged as he sat on the couch. “I guess so. Just kind of pick up whatever interests me,” he replied, and picked up the remote for the telly. There wasn’t much on, just crappy talk shows and news (which was definitely off the table; the news was was too depressing, on top of his work). Finally Greg settled on a mildly interesting antiques show, and sighed with satisfaction.

Sherlock was still standing at the bookshelf, a book open in his hands.

“You can come sit over here,” Lestrade said absently, patting the space next to him. Sherlock didn’t move for a second, but then hesitantly picked his way over to the couch and dropped down onto it, keeping to the corner.

“What’d you pick?” Greg asked, peering at the book in Sherlock’s grip.

“Winnie-the-Pooh,” Sherlock answered cautiously, as if afraid Lestrade would laugh at him.

Greg smiled with fondness. “I’ve had that one since I was a child. My mum used to read it to me at night,” he said, and turned back to the telly. All was calm, and Lestrade felt incredibly at peace; the tea had left a warm glow under his skin, and the programme was engaging. Sherlock was quiet, though Greg could always tell when he turned a page from the sound of paper sliding against itself.

Slowly, Sherlock began to stretch out, until his feet hesitantly prodded at Greg’s thigh. Greg smiled to himself, though his eyes never left the television screen as Sherlock burrowed his toes in between Greg’s leg and the cushion.

At a commercial break, Lestrade looked over to say something to Sherlock, only to find the other man asleep, head pressed against the back of the couch and Winnie-the-Pooh open on his chest, rising and falling in time with his breaths.

Greg huffed a laugh. “G’night, Sunshine,” he said softly, pulling a blanket that was draped over the top of the couch onto Sherlock’s legs, then turned back to the telly.

Chapter Text

Everything had a place in the palace. John was in the Roland Kerr College, in one of the downstairs rooms (along with Mary, now). Old cases were stored in the basement, manila files and artifacts cluttering the dim-lit room. Science was bubbling away gently in a lab at Bart’s. Family was stored in the rooms leading off the front hall of the old estate. Moriarty was- well. Locked away.

Slowly, Sherlock wandered the corridors, losing himself inside his head, a place as familiar to him as London. Up the ornate staircase he walked, running a hand over the carvings in the wood railing. A dim sun was rising outside the windows, as it undoubtedly was in Greg’s flat.

Greg? Sherlock paused at the top of the stairs, tilting his head to the right as if that could bring back the thought so he could turn it round in his hands and examine it from all sides. When did I start keeping his name in here? Sherlock wound through the halls, a purpose in his step, until he came up to the unassuming door to Lestrade’s flat. When he was within reach, he put his arm out and pushed it open, feeling the hard grain of wood under his fingertips. With the first step inside, Sherlock could tell something had changed.

The flat was so….bright. Most of the physical reminders of memories he had about Lestrade were the same, but there was a warmth to the space, something that settled in his chest cavity and stayed there. When did this happen? Sherlock wondered as he trailed a hand against the wall on his way to the kitchen. Somewhere between their first haphazard meeting and a bone crushing hug (and that had hurt, with the bruised ribs he’d received in Serbia) that wasn’t the kind of reunion he was expecting, Greg Lestrade had carved out a kind, invitational place that felt more and more like home.

Sherlock lowered himself into the armchair in the living room, thoughts already whirling around. What do I do with this? Lestrade had never indicated he’d ever reciprocate.

What about ‘Sunshine’? Does that suggest- no. Sherlock shook his head, chastising himself. Don’t be ridiculous. He wouldn’t do anything, he decided. He’d continue on as Sherlock Holmes, high functioning sociopath and consulting detective. No one would be able to tell. Decision made, he nodded to himself and stood from the chair, swiftly walking from the room and through his mind palace until he reached the front door. With a flick of his wrist on the door knob, Sherlock exited his head and opened his eyes in the real world, determined to proceed as usual.

The sight that greeted him, though, made him forget that goal and his heart seize up in something he suspected may be affection. Sherlock was in mostly the same position he’d fallen asleep in, but at some point in the night, Lestrade had slid down to lay out on the couch, head pressed up against the armrest. His hair was rumpled, chest moving evenly with his breaths, and their legs had become tangled up together under the blanket. A small amount of sunlight came in from the kitchen, bathing the room and Greg’s features in a soft yellow.

This will be harder than I thought, Sherlock admitted to himself, but his resolve hardened when the thought of Lestrade laughing in his face, finally agreeing with Donovan and Anderson, crossed his mind.

Warm. That was the first thing that registered in Greg’s mind, and instinctively he tried to burrow further into it, only stopping when his legs hit something bony. What?

Slowly, Greg became aware of his surroundings, and realised that he was still on his living room couch, and Sherlock Holmes was too. With a groan- God I’ll be paying for this kip on the couch later - Lestrade levered himself up into a sitting position, though his legs were still under the blanket. Leaning back onto the armrest, Greg yawned and carded a hand through his hair, noting with some embarrassment that it was sticking up in multiple directions.

“Morning,” he said lowly to Sherlock, though he didn’t look at the other man. He was too preoccupied with looking at the suit he’d fallen asleep in and wondering if the wrinkles would ever come out. Sherlock didn’t reply, but Greg didn’t mind; he wasn’t really one for small talk just after he’d woken up. “I’m gonna have a shower,” he decided, and managed to untangle himself from the blanket and Sherlock’s legs. “Back in a few.”

Lestrade walked stiffly across the living room, trying to ignore the aches and pains that were making themselves known, and into his room, where he quickly stripped and walked into the adjoining bathroom. The water was warm, loosening some of the knots in his muscles, and Greg sighed in satisfaction. The bathroom gradually filled with steam from the heat, which made the air thick with moisture; he breathed it in with relish, enjoying the balmy taste on his tongue and thankful he didn’t have to be at the Yard for paperwork until that afternoon. Perfect.

When Greg didn’t think he could get any more relaxed, he turned off the shower and stepped out, drying himself and walking back into the bedroom to throw on a long-sleeve thermal and pyjama bottoms. In contrast to the bathroom, the chill felt like a cool kiss against his skin. Sherlock was still sitting on the couch when Greg entered the living room, though he now held a mug in his hands.

“What, no tea for me?” Greg asked jokingly, and chuckled at the somewhat guilty expression that crossed Sherlock’s face. “It’s fine, Sunshine,” he said, and walked into the kitchen to make his own, completely missing the flash of emotion on Sherlock’s face at the endearment.

As he was waiting for the kettle to boil, Greg’s stomach let out a sharp rumble to express it’s desire for food. Mentally he ran through the contents of the fridge, and decided he could make a decent breakfast with the eggs, cheese, and ham. So while the tea steeped, he put a pan on the stove and let it heat up, then whisked the eggs and some milk in a bowl. When the pan was ready, he poured the eggs in, sprinkling cheese and chopped ham on top.

When Greg turned to look and see if he had any bread for toast, he caught sight of Sherlock, who had taken off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves to just below the elbow. He was leaning against the door frame, and Greg got the impression it wasn’t something he did very often from the stiffness in his body.

There was bread, thankfully still fresh. (Though to be honest, he didn’t recall going to the store; not surprising, he supposed. It’d been a busy few days.) Greg pulled out a few slices and put them on a cutting board, then got the toaster down before quickly stirring the eggs so they wouldn’t stick.

“You want to put that bread in?” he asked Sherlock over his shoulder, and after a moment Sherlock hesitantly walked over to the counter. The way he placed the bread into the toaster was specific, almost as if he didn’t do it just so it wouldn’t turn out. Greg smiled to himself and continued stirring the eggs.

The meal came together a few minutes later as the eggs turned fluffy and the toast popped up. Greg swiftly moved around Sherlock in an elegant step to snag some plates, then spun back to the pan at dished the eggs out. Stepping to the side and nudging Sherlock so he’d move over, Lestrade then took the toast and buttered it before dropping it on the plates alongside the eggs.

The plates clattered slightly against the wood table, and Greg grabbed some forks and napkins before sitting down. “C’mon,” he said to Sherlock, gesturing to the other chair with a nod of his head. “Eat while it’s hot.”

Sherlock looked as if he were going to object and spout some of that nonsense about food slowly down the brain, but when Lestrade gave him a look that said eat, he acquiesced and sat down. “I wasn’t aware you could cook,” Sherlock said, sounding peeved that there was something he didn’t know.

Greg smirked and gestured with his fork to Sherlock’s plate. “You’ll find out that I can, and well, if you actually eat.”

Sherlock shot a narrow-eyed glare, but picked up his fork and dug in. And if Greg was pleased at how Sherlock continued eating past a few bites, well, it was good Sherlock was doing something healthy for a change. Healthy behaviour- yes, he thought to himself as he watched the consulting detective. That was the only reason Greg’s chest felt light, and yet full of happiness.

Chapter Text

“Sherlock!” Lestrade hissed. Dammit you madman- where did you run off to? Lestrade tried to quiet his breathing, heavy from the running he’d been doing before Sherlock had stopped moving and dragged them into an alley. The consulting detective had motioned for Lestrade to be quiet, then pressed himself up against the wall of a building. He’d stayed still for a few minutes, barely breathing and full of tension, until with no warning and quick as a flash he’d ran out into the street. Leaving me behind.

Greg crept closer to the mouth of the alley, keeping his gun gripped between both hands. The area around St Katharine Docks at one in the morning was fairly deserted, but as Lestrade poked his head out to look up and down the street, a large crash resounded from a pub whose lights were still on. Greg jumped slightly at the clamor, but his concern increased even further when the window broke and two men came tumbling out onto the sidewalk. By the light of a streetlamp and from the pub, Lestrade could just make out the familiar figure of Sherlock face-up on the ground, fighting back against a large, burly man. Panic lit up in Greg’s chest, and as he ran forward to help he watched Sherlock and the suspect wrestle, rolling over into the street and exchanging blows. Sherlock gained the advantage, skittering away, but the other man hauled himself off the ground at took a running hit at Sherlock. The force propelled them across the road and over to the railing between them and the water below. Just as Lestrade hit halfway across the road, yelling Sherlock’s name in alarm, both Sherlock’s and the other man’s balance slipped and they went tumbling over the rail, down into the Thames.

Lestrade rubbed the back of his head, ruffling his hair at the sight in front of him. The woman- early thirties, brown hair and eyes- had obviously been raped and strangled, but it was more than that. On her inner thighs, some kind of sharp, thin instrument had drawn fingerprints into her skin, and the room around her had been covered in pictures of her from walls to floor.

“I’ll give Sherlock a call,” Lestrade sighed, and for once Donovan said nothing in response. (She’d been more tolerant of the man since his return, but Greg appreciated it nonetheless.) Quickly, Lestrade made his way out of the flat where Martina Richardson had been murdered, already pulling out his mobile and finding Sherlock’s number.

The bright sun outside was slightly warm, a nice change from the past few days where the sky had been cloudy and dreary. Greg listened to the phone ring in his ear, counting the three times Sherlock would let it go for until he picked up.

“Have a case for me?” Sherlock demanded to know, and Lestrade smiled a bit at the lack of greeting.

“Yep,” Lestrade said. “You interested?”

Sherlock scoffed. “Obviously. Where is it?”

“Great Suffolk Street,” Greg replied.

“I’ll be there,” Sherlock said crisply, and hung up.

When Sherlock arrived, he swept past Lestrade and the forensics team, and Greg tried not to be amused by the way everyone moved to the sides of the hallway to let him through. Not even sparing them a glance, Sherlock walked into the bedroom, then stopped a few steps in. He looked at Lestrade over his shoulder, excitement written on his face.

“You’ve been an idiot, as usual,” Sherlock stated, but there wasn’t any malice in it and Lestrade shrugged good-naturedly. Moving so he was standing side by side with Sherlock, Greg looked at the crime scene, wondering what Sherlock saw.

“What did I miss?’

Sherlock gestured to the body as he pulled on a pair of gloves. “Have you checked the prints?”

“We dusted for them, yeah,” Lestrade said, confused. “Wiped clean.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and bent down next to the corpse. “The prints,” he repeated, and jabbed a finger pointing to the victim’s thighs.

A lightbulb went on in Greg’s head. “You think the perp carved his own fingerprints into her skin?”

“I’m positive,” Sherlock replied confidently. “It makes sense. This man,” he said, sweeping an arm out, referring to the room around them, “does not care about being caught. Probably wants it, in fact. This place reeks of self-pleasure without regard for authorities.”

“How so?”

Sherlock moved to the wall, drawing Lestrade’s gaze over to the photographs. “These were all taken in public places; there isn’t a single one of her in this house, or other places that could be considered private, indicating that he probably had access to her in person as well. That theory is also supported by the lack of forced entry. The photographs also haven’t been digitally zoomed in or altered, but perfectly captured. He’s comfortable with a camera, and he’s comfortable with getting close to her. He’s cocky, confident, overbearing. He put his fingerprints onto her skin as both a trophy and a way to taunt police. Without me, and given the idiocy of Scotland Yard, I doubt anyone would have ran them through the system, so he would have gotten away with it, without you ever knowing the evidence to convict him was right under your nose.”

Lestrade shook his head with a grin. “Amazing, as usual,” he complimented, then crossed the room to stick his head into the hall. “Anderson, get your arse in here!”

He completely missed the stricken look on Sherlock’s face, then the way he shook his head in self-reprimand and schooled his features back into interest and concentration.

Something about this idiot, Lestrade thought as he ran after Sherlock, gun in hand, makes me disregard every rule I ever followed. Sherlock’s hunch about the fingerprints had paid off; Anderson had taken photos and a run through the database had turned up a Mr Vincent Hormwood. He was a hulking sort of man, broad shoulders and dark eyes. His prior was for assault, though the charges had been dropped before the case had gone to court.

Sherlock, upon hearing the information, had insisted upon going after the man himself, deducing his comfort zone from maps that plotted Hormwood’s movements. Greg had taken him as far as a few blocks away from a pub Hormwood frequented, but drew the line there. Lestrade had told him to wait for backup, but the other man had ignored him and had sprinted off into the night. Greg had gone after him, cursing under his breath and shivering at the blast of cold air as he exited the car.

“Sherlock!” Greg yelled again, finally across the street. After tucking his gun into his waistband, he slammed into the railing and peered down at the river, searching for Sherlock; he caught sight of the man surfacing with a floundering of arms, Hormwood following a few metres away. Lestrade whipped his head around, searching for a way to get down to the river without falling in, relieved to see a dock not far away. As fast as he could, Greg ran for it, feet thudding loudly on first the sidewalk, then the wood planks of the dock.

“Sherlock!” he called, and waved his arms in the air. “Over here!” Sherlock began to swim towards him, but even at this distance, and in relative darkness, Lestrade could see that the other man was fading fast, probably a combination of his clothing pulling downwards and shock from the deceptively cold water. Shite.

Instinct had Greg putting his gun down, tearing off his coat and shoes to jump in before he realised what was he was doing, and only a split second thought of I have to crossed his mind before he launched off the dock.

Lestrade gasped when he surfaced-  Jesus, that’s cold- and began swimming in the direction Sherlock was in, trying to use as little energy as possible. When Greg reached him, the other man was barely treading water.

“C’mon,” Lestrade said, tugging at Sherlock’s collar. “We have to get back to the dock.”

“Suspect,” Sherlock slurred out, though his arms and legs began moving in coordination with Lestrade’s.

“Forget about the sodding suspect,” Greg growled through his gritted teeth. “We know who he is, we’ll pick him up some other time. You, on the other hand-” he paused and cursed, forcing himself to move faster. “You’re important, Sunshine, and you sure as hell aren’t drowning if I can help it.”

Finally. The dock was within reach, and with a groan Lestrade hauled himself up onto it, pulling Sherlock behind him until they both flopped on their backs onto the wood, breathing heavily. Sherlock coughed a couple times, and Greg turned his head to look at him.

“You okay?”

Sherlock nodded weakly. “Yeah,” he rasped, so Greg rolled his head back to look at the sky and they laid there in silence for for a few minutes.

“Did you mean that?” Sherlock asked, his words floating up into the night.

“Mean what?” Lestrade sighed.

“That I was important.”

Greg looked at Sherlock again. “‘Course I did.”

“Oh.”

“Did you think I didn’t?”

Sherlock coughed again, and kept staring up, speaking without looking at Lestrade. “I was in doubt, a bit. Perhaps.”

“Sunshine,” Greg said, serious, and waited until Sherlock’s eyes met his before he continued. “You are important. Extraordinarily so. Don’t doubt that.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, eyes flitting over Greg’s face. “Thank you.”

The echoing sound of police sirens, signifying the arrival of backup, cut off all the things Lestrade wanted to say in reply.

Chapter Text

Sherlock groused about the bright orange blanket that was flung over his shoulders, but he didn’t raise nearly as much protest as he usually did; the lack of a dry coat- or dry anything, really, because Sherlock was still dripping- was making his shoulders shake, and Greg could see the way Sherlock’s fingers gripped the shock blanket a bit tighter.

Lestrade was also soaked, but at least he had a coat and shoes to put on that weren’t covered in water. He spared a moment of thanks for that before walking over to Donovan, who was standing with a notebook by one of the police cruisers.

“Update?” he asked, hopeful; up until now, Sally had barred him from anything relating to the case. Now, she sighed, but dutifully flipped to the previous page in the notebook.

“Hormwood got away- probably found his way onto another dock. We’re putting eyes on his house, work, and other frequented places though, so we should be able to pick him up soon.”

Lestrade nodded and tried to hide another shiver. “Good,” he said tersely. “I was thinking our next move would be to-”

“Uh-uh, Guv,” Donovan said, shaking her head and holding up a hand. “Your next move is getting in a cab and going home.”

“I’m fine,” Greg protested. “I’ve got some clothes at the Yard, I can change there.”

Sally raised an eyebrow. “I don’t care. You need to sleep, and there isn’t anything important going on right now. And before you say it, no, surveillance you’re not even a part of is not considered important in this situation. Go home. Get some rest, have a scalding hot cuppa.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes, but sighed in defeat; if Donovan said go home, chances were very slim he’d be able to convince her otherwise. “Fine.”

Donovan smiled a bit. “Cab’s over there,” she said, nodding to a little ways down the road, and Lestrade snorted.

“You planned this, didn’t you?” he accused, but Donovan just shrugged in response. Greg shook his head ruefully, but clapped the sergeant on the shoulder. “We appreciate it.”

“We?” she repeated.

“Well, yeah,” Lestrade said. “Sherlock and I.”

Donovan gave him a confused look, but Greg was already turning and walking toward the ambulance, where Sherlock looked ready to tear into one of the paramedics.

“Hey,” he said when he reached them, and Sherlock turned, appearing ready to bite his head off until he realised it was Lestrade.

“Tell this imbecile that there’s nothing wrong with me, and I do not need to visit the hospital,” Sherlock snapped, picking up his coat.

“It’s okay, mate,” Greg said to the paramedic, and put a hand on Sherlock’s back to guide him away. “We’re heading home, anyway,” he continued, then turned to Sherlock. “Git,” he said affectionately.

Sherlock huffed in response, but didn’t pull away from Greg’s touch and let Lestrade usher him into the back of the cab.

“Veronica Gardens,” Sherlock told the cabbie, and Lestrade looked at him.

“What about Baker Street?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Your flat’s closer. I’ll borrow some of your clothes. My body is insisting that I sleep,” he replied, tone changing from factual to complaining as he went on. Lestrade laughed silently at the annoyed expression on Sherlock’s face when he bemoaned feeling tired.

“You’re utterly daft,” he finally got out, and Sherlock looked even more peeved.

“Am not,” he countered, then seemed to realise how childish he sounded. “Only sometimes,” he amended.

Greg chuckled some more at that before falling silent, a large grin on his face as he looked out the cab window.

By the time the cab pulled up in front of Lestrade’s flat, Sherlock was almost asleep, head bobbing downwards then viciously jerking up again when the consultant realised he was dozing off. After handing over some notes for the bill, Lestrade staggered out of the backseat, holding onto Sherlock’s wrist and pulling the other man along behind him. The stairs up to Greg’s door were hell, and Sherlock almost tripped a couple of times, but finally Lestrade was turning his keys in the lock and pushing the door open.

Sherlock stumbled in behind him and leaned against the wall, still clutching his coat.

“C’mon, you lazy sod,” Lestrade said, and tugged the still-damp material out of Sherlock’s hands to hang it up before grabbing Sherlock’s hand. “Into the shower with you.” Sherlock made a sound of protest, but blindly followed Greg into the bathroom, dropping onto the toilet seat while Lestrade ran the water.

“Up we go,” Lestrade grunted, pulling Sherlock up by the armpits and propping him up against the sink. “Do I have to undress you, or can you do that yourself?”

Sherlock blinked his eyes open in response. “Help.”

Greg rolled his eyes, but pulled off Sherlock’s suit jacket and began undoing the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt. When the other man didn’t make any move to remove his trousers, Greg grumbled and clumsily undid the zip and pushed them down, letting them fall into a puddle of fabric on the tile floor.

“You can do the pants yourself,” he told Sherlock, and moved to leave, but was stopped by a hand on his wrist. Greg turned, ready to ask if something was wrong, but stopped when he saw the perplexed look on Sherlock’s face.

“You’re not interested,” Sherlock said slowly, as if he was making sure not to botch his words.

“What?” Greg asked, confused. “Interested? In….” he trailed off, lost as to what Sherlock was talking about.

“Sex,” Sherlock clarified, and Lestrade became even more bewildered.

“What? No. Where is this coming from, Sunshine?” Is he feverish or something? Greg put a hand on Sherlock’s forehead, but the other man weakly batted it away.

“Why?” Sherlock questioned, frustrated.

“Um.” Lestrade was floundering, completely out of his comfort zone. He’d never talked about it, except with Brianna, and look how that had turned out; she’d said it was okay, then had gone and gotten what she was missing from other men. Most people thought it was bizarre, didn’t understand. But Sherlock’s like that too, on some level, he reminded himself, and took a deep breath to answer.

“I’m asexual. Like you,” he said, then smiled gently at Sherlock, ignoring the way his stomach plumetted in fear of rejection at saying the words out loud. “Now, go on, before the water turns cold.” With that, Greg left the loo, walking into the dark bedroom and collapsing on his bed.

Now what? He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to quiet his thoughts, and reprimanded himself. There isn’t anything you can do about it now, except take it as it comes. So he stood up and stripped, fumbling in the dark to find a towel and dry off before cucooning himself in a pair of plaid pyjama bottoms and a long sleeve tee, along with the thickest pair of socks he owned. Shuffling into the kitchen, he made some tea, both for himself and Sherlock. The kettle clicked off just as the water from the shower stopped running.

Greg walked back into the bedroom with the two mugs, the light from the hall serving to illuminate the room.  When he entered, he just caught sight of a strip of pale skin as Sherlock pulled on a shirt; Sherlock turned and looked at Greg, saw the tea he was holding, and walked forward to take it from him.

Lestrade set his own mug on the nightstand and turned down the sheets before crawling under the covers. Sherlock watched from the foot of the bed, but when Greg patted the mattress beside him, Sherlock walked over and settled in next to him.

They sat there, sipping their almost-too-hot tea, silent for a few minutes, until Sherlock spoke quietly.

“I didn’t know.”

Greg smiled sadly and kept looking forward. “Nobody does. Except Brianna.” He thought he heard Sherlock mutter something that sounded like “useless woman” in response, but he couldn’t be sure.

“Why?” Sherlock asked, and Lestrade didn’t need to be a genius to hear the full question. Why don’t you tell people?

He shrugged. “Convenience. And it never really came up.” He took Sherlock’s silence as acceptance, and took another swallow of tea, letting the silence blanket them again.

Greg flinched- just slightly, but enough to be noticeable - when Sherlock’s head touched his shoulder a few moments later. Sherlock paused for a second, but when Lestrade didn’t object, let his head lie fully down. When Greg was done with his tea, he put the mug on the bedside table, then lifted his hand to card his fingers through Sherlock’s hair; the other man hummed in satisfaction, and pressed the rest of his body up against Lestrade’s right side. And like that, close together, they stayed, dropping off into sleep.

Chapter Text

When Greg woke the next morning, he had a major crick in his neck and was alone in bed. Sometime during the night he and Sherlock had slid down from a sitting position to properly lying down, and he remembered waking briefly at one point. Sherlock had been wrapped around him like a starfish, their limbs twining together and Sherlock’s breath ghosting against Greg’s collarbone; it had felt incredibly comfortable, and Greg had fallen back asleep with a smile on his face.

Now, Lestrade felt the rumpled sheets next to him, and discovered they’d gone cold in Sherlock’s absence. He probably woke up and decided to snoop around, Greg thought with an affectionate grin. Running a hand through his hair with a yawn, Lestrade pulled himself out of bed, and down the hallway into the living room, already wondering what they were going to do for the rest of the day- he’d have to in to the Yard to check up on the Hormwood situation, but after that, surely there’d be some time for him and Sherlock to do something together, maybe talk about whatever this was.

All of those thoughts- and the incredibly feeling of rightness they left in his chest - fell flat when he stepped into the living room; the rest of the flat had the hollow, empty feeling it got when no one else was there, and Greg didn’t have to go any further to know that Sherlock was gone; his coat was conspicuously absent from the rack where it had hung the night before.

So that’s it then, Greg thought, standing there, gaze unfocused and heart twisting painfully. We were finished before we even started.

This is utterly hateful, Sherlock thought as Janine found her way onto his lap again. Janine was not terribly boring to be around in most senses, but really, the touching was getting out of hand. As Janine’s fingers slid from his curls down the back of his neck, Sherlock just managed to hide a shudder of discomfort and fought the instinct to pull away.

It’s what normal people do, he reminded himself, and kissed back. And in order to get closer to Magnussen, you have to do this. The cocaine use would only get him so far; on Magnussen’s radar, but not into his office. So Sherlock had reconnected with Janine, and while he’d only been planning on a friendship to start, it had turned into her snogging him and well, he may be trying to prove to himself that all this still didn’t interest him, in a very roundabout way.

Because it had all changed, a week ago. He, Sherlock Holmes, had failed. He had destroyed his carefully cultivated image of impenetrability and callousness. When Lestrade had admitted to being asexual as well, Sherlock had been floored with surprise; it certainly wasn’t what he’d expected. Even then, though, Sherlock told himself that he’d ignore it, that it didn’t change the fact that Lestrade wasn’t interested. And then he’d gone and cuddled with the man. Perhaps it’s possible that idiocy is contagious...What other explanation would suffice for why he’d been so stupid? Lestrade would never be able to look at him again.

“Sherl?” Janine was looking at him inquisitively. Quickly, Sherlock schooled his features into an embarrassed-but-happy expression.

“Sorry, Janine,” he apologised. “Afraid I missed that. What did you say?” Janine smiled at him and Sherlock forced himself to concentrate on her words, stamping down the thought that kept popping up in his head.

God, I wish he was here.

Greg’s phone rang, startling him out of a daze where he sat at his desk. Rubbing his eyes, Lestrade grabbed his mobile and answered.

“DI Lestrade.”

“Greg.”

Lestrade immediately sat up straight in his office chair. “John.” It was eerily familiar, this phone call. Please don’t let him be-

“Sherlock’s in the hospital.”

Jesus Christ no. Not again, please, I can’t do that again. “What happened?” he demanded, and rose from his desk, already walking from his office. “Where?”

“I, I don’t know. We were in Magnussen’s office and-”

“Hold on, Charles Magnussen? The newspaper guy?” Greg snagged his coat on the way out, barked at Donovan that he was taking a vacation day; John was talking frantically.

“Yeah, I guess he’s blackmailing something...someone, I don’t know. But we were there, and then Janine- from the wedding, her and Sherlock are dating now, apparently - but Sherlock went off to look around and I found him a couple minutes later, shot in the gut.”

Greg shoved aside the wave of hurt that filled him. Sherlock’s departure and apparent relationship with Janine - and his own feelings about it - weren’t important right now. “Where is he?”

“They’ve got him at St Thomas.”

Oh, the irony. The last time Greg had been there was when he had been shot. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Janine had gone to visit Sherlock before him. As Greg sat in the caf with a cup of appropriately-horrible coffee, he tried to push away the ill feeling that thought caused. Of course she got to go first- she is- was- his girlfriend. And what I feel doesn’t matter, Lestrade reminded himself. Sherlock had made that clear when he’d left, then disappeared for two weeks. When he’d gone into a dangerous situation and gotten himself shot without telling Greg.

“Hey.” John’s gentle voice pulled Greg out of his thoughts.

“John. How you holding up?”

John smiled wearily. “I’m alright. Got to see him, for a bit; he’s in and out, but I thought maybe you’d want to ask your questions now.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah. Might as well; maybe then I can go home and get some rest,” he replied, and stood from the table. He and John made their way out of the cafeteria and up the floors to Sherlock’s room; private, of course - Mycroft’s doing, no doubt.

“Don’t know how much sense you’ll get out of him. He’s drugged up, so he’s pretty much babbling.”

Greg made a sound in response, but on the whole ignored the other man, too busy trying to push down the apprehension and panic that were flooding his thoughts as they got closer to Sherlock. Trying to distract himself, he looked down in at his mobile, a soft beep informing him of a text message.

Don’t try and find me. -SH

What? Greg started down at the words, lost. Did Sherlock not want Lestrade handling his case?

“Oh, they won’t let you use that in here, you know,” John was saying. Lestrade pulled himself out of his head and tried to come up with an answer.

“No, I’m not gonna use the phone. I just want to take a video,” he finally said, forcing a grin onto his face. John grinned back and opened the door to Sherlock’s room, stepping inside. It was dark, but Greg could tell immediately from the empty bed that Sherlock was gone, and the pieces of the puzzle began clicking together in his mind. Don’t try and find me.

“Oh Jesus,” John breathed, and Greg couldn’t help but agree.

“He knew who shot him,” John insisted. “The bullet wound was here,” he gestured to his stomach, “so he was facing whoever it was.”

Lestrade stepped closer. “So why not tell us?” It’s been hours. We don’t know shite. God, I feel useless. “Because he’s tracking them down himself?”

John turned from the window to face him again. “Or protecting them.”

“Protecting the shooter? Why?”

“Well, protecting someone, then. But why would he care? He’s Sherlock,” John replied, sitting down in his armchair. “Who would he bother protecting?”

Greg didn’t reply that Sherlock would protect them all- him, John, Mrs Hudson, that Sherlock had jumped off a building for them before, and didn’t John remember that? Instead, Lestrade prepared himself to leave. “Call me if you hear anything. Don’t hold out on me, John.”

John didn’t say anything, just stared at his armchair, and Greg felt a spark of annoyance flare in the back of his mind. I deserve to know what’s going on too. “Call me, okay?” he repeated.

“Yeah. Yeah, right,” John answered distractedly.

“Good night then,” Greg said, unsatisfied but having no reason to stay. He nodded goodbye to Mrs Hudson before leaving the flat, worry still filling his gut. When he reached the street, he pulled out his mobile and finally texted back:

What are you doing?

The reply came in as he was unlocking his car.

Doing what’s necessary. I’m fine. -SH

Whatever it is, let me help.

Can’t. Catch you later. -SH

Lestrade slid into the driver’s seat and hoped to every deity that had ever been worshiped by man that the next time he saw Sherlock wouldn’t be standing over the man’s body.

Chapter Text

Lestrade walked into the hospital room, put the file folder and tape recorder on the bedside table, and pulled up a chair. Perching on the edge of his seat, he opened the folder and spread out witness statements; he didn’t look at the man lying in the bed, head propped up by pillows. Lestrade took out his notebook and pen, flipping to an empty page, then clicked on the tape recorder.

“Please state your name for the record,” he said crisply.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock tried to say, but Greg cut him off.

“Please state. Your. Name,” he enunciated. There was a beat of silence.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Thank you. Now. Do  you recall the events of a week ago, taking place on the evening of June third?” Lestrade’s gaze stayed firmly fixed on his notepad.

“I do,” Sherlock bit out.

“Please describe them, to the best of your knowledge.”

“This is pointless. You already know what happened.”

“It’s procedure, Mr Holmes. In this case, it’s something you need to follow,” Greg said calmly.

“Mr Holmes?” Sherlock growled, and slammed his hand on the small table. “Dammit, Lestrade, what is going on?”

Lestrade finally looked at Sherlock, face blank but eyebrows raised. “I’m doing my job.”

“This is not your job,” Sherlock hissed. “This is not how you do things.”

“And look where it got me!” Lestrade snapped back, then closed his eyes, working his jaw in an attempt to reign in his emotions. “Sorry, Mr Holmes,” he said, and stood up, gathering his things and turning off the recorder. “I’ll send another officer down to collect your statement.” As Greg was grabbing a piece of paper, Sherlock’s hand wound around his wrist; Lestrade stared at it for a moment, trying to ignore the warmth it sent up and down his arm. With a sharp twist, Greg pulled away, avoiding Sherlock’s gaze as he quickly left the room, door shutting behind him.

He only made it a few steps down the hall before he had to stop and lean against the wall, trying to control his breathing. Oh Christ. He’d know it was going to be hard, seeing Sherlock again, working his case. But being in the same room as the man, being so close to the man he loved, cared for, whatever you chose, it ripped something out of him. Especially when he knew that Sherlock didn’t feel the same way.

It’s to be expected, though, I suppose. In comparison to Sherlock, a blazing sun of brilliance, who was Greg to get anywhere close?

Lestrade was doing paperwork, wearily rubbing his eyes, when there was a knock at his office door.

“Come in,” he said absently, still focused on the form on his desk. When the door opened, Greg looked up to see who it was, and his stomach dropped.

“Sherlock,” he managed to say through the lump in his throat. “What are you-”

“Shut up,” Sherlock barked, sweeping in and standing in front of Lestrade’s desk. “You need to explain.”

“Explain what, exactly?” Greg replied, hackles raised by Sherlock’s demanding tone.

“Why you’ve been ignoring me for months,” Sherlock snapped. “While I was in the hospital, fine; John told me he put a ban on cases. But I’ve been out for a week now, Lestrade.”

Some part of Greg fractured when he realised the only reason Sherlock had come was because he was bored, dying for a case. What were you expecting? he thought to himself scathingly. A proclamation of undying affection?

“I haven’t got any cases that would be interesting enough for you, Sherlock,” he said tersely. Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, but was interrupted by a sharp rap at the door and Donovan leaning into Lestrade’s office.

“Case Guv,” she said, and shot a look at Sherlock before popping back out. Lestrade picked up his coat from the back of his chair and shrugged it over his shoulders, avoiding Sherlock’s gaze. His eyes were forced onto the other man’s, though, when Sherlock moved so he was blocking Greg’s way to the door.

“Move, Sherlock.”

“It’s a case, Lestrade.”

“Nothing you’d be interested in,” Greg dismissed.

Sherlock didn’t move, stared at Lestrade as if he was trying to pin him down. “Why-” he began.

“I’m on duty, Sherlock,” Lestrade said brusquely, and shouldered past Sherlock. “If you have something to say to me, say it some other time when I’m not working. Other than that, I’ll call you if I’ve got a case.” With that, Greg left, letting the door slam shut behind him.

The door to his flat was unlocked. When this registered in Lestrade’s mind, his hand froze on the knob and his heart picked up speed. He always locked his flat. Always. It was a habit learned from uni, when he’d once forgotten to and someone had ended up ransacking his place. So who was inside?

Breathing shallowly, Greg slowly twisted the knob the rest of the way and eased the door open, extremely thankful that it didn’t creak. He quietly stepped inside, body taut and ready to confront an intruder. None of the lights were on, but Lestrade could feel the presence of another person; he desperately wished he had his gun on him.

“No need for the gun, Lestrade,” a voice said in the darkness, and Greg flicked on the light, confirming that yes, Sherlock was sitting in his armchair in an imitation of his customary “thinking” pose.

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “What are you doing here, Sherlock.” The words were a question, but they came out with a resigned, tired tone. And I am. So, so tired. Tired of feeling so damn much for a man who doesn’t feel it back.

“I have something to say to you,” Sherlock stated simply.

“Well that’s just wizard,” Lestrade said bitterly, moving into the kitchen. He contemplated the tea, then decided to go for the bottle of whisky in the back of the cupboard instead. Greg didn’t bother with a glass, instead just taking the entire bottle into the living room with him.

Sherlock watched him as Greg took a seat on the far end of the couch. “You almost never drink,” he said, words factual but with an undercurrent of uncertainty.

Lestrade’s smile had a sharp edge to it. “The key word being ‘almost’.” Sherlock didn’t reply, and Greg wondered at the fact that he’d made the man speechless.

Eventually, Sherlock cleared his throat and spoke again. “I have entertained the possibility that I somehow offended you, and have determined that it is the most likely scenario.”

Greg said nothing, and after an insecure pause, Sherlock continued. “I had hoped to learn what it was that I did that was so unbearable for you, to make you leave.”

Lestrade closed his eyes against the pain that stole his breath. “It doesn’t matter,” he whispered.

“Yes, it does,” Sherlock insisted. “Lestrade. Look at me.” Then, almost too quiet to be heard, “Please.”

Greg forced his eyes to meet Sherlock’s, forced himself to keep everything open, not holding back. Sherlock searched his face, flitting across Greg’s features and breaking it all down. “Oh,” he breathed. “Oh.” Slumping back against the chair, Sherlock’s hands came up to tangle into his hair. “Stupid, stupid. Should have seen.”

Lestrade looked away and tried to prepare himself, set the bottle of whisky. “I understand if you don’t- if. If you’d rather work with someone else from now on,” he said, getting the words out despite the way they scratched at his throat on the way.

“What?” Sherlock asked, and Greg refused to hope.

“You’ve always shown disdain for sentiment. I have...quite a damn bit of it for you, if we’re being honest. Another contact at the Yard would be the most logical course of action; Dimmock, maybe.”

“You idiot,” Sherlock growled, and all of a sudden ice cold fingers were gripping Greg’s face, pulling his head to connect their gazes once more.

“I don’t want anyone else,” Sherlock continued, and pressed his forehead against Greg’s, his eyes falling shut as they made contact. “It’s you. Just you.”

Greg’s hands automatically came up to gently press against Sherlock’s ribs, feeling the other man’s frenetic heartbeat. “What?” he said, the word coming out mangled with emotion.

Sherlock pressed harder where their foreheads touched, moved closer so that his legs were pressed up against Lestrade’s right side. “It’s you, Lestrade. Never anyone else.”

“What about Janine?”

Sherlock made a pained noise in the back of his throat. “A bad idea,” he admitted. “Horrible, really.”

Greg choked out something resembling a laugh. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t think you’d reciprocate. Why didn’t you?”

“When you left...that morning, I thought you’d decided you wanted nothing to do with me.”

Sherlock’s fingers tightened their grip, sliding into his hair. “I was an idiot.”

“Kiss me.”

“What?” Sherlock’s eyes opened and he pulled back, just enough to look at Greg properly.

“If you’re okay with it,” Lestrade amended, and Sherlock made a noise and pressed his lips against Greg’s, holding them there. Their mouths were slightly open; there wasn’t any tongue but they sat there, exchanging breath and holding onto one another as much as possible. And maybe Greg’s neck was starting to hurt from being in such an odd position but God, did it matter when his chest felt like it was full to the brim with joy and Sherlock was right there?

After a few minutes that felt like a mini-eternity, Lestrade pulled back, gripped Sherlock’s hand with his own and entwined their fingers. Silently, he pulled Sherlock up off the couch and walked him into the bedroom where they laid on top of the duvet, still clothed, face-to-face and as close as they could be. Gently, their lips met again, then parted, Lestrade’s head moving down so that his nose touched lightly against Sherlock’s collarbone.

“Goodnight, Sunshine.”

Chapter Text

The tang of fear was bitter on his tongue, heart slamming in his chest as he whirled around, attempting to find a way out. The light was all wrong, the dimensions of the building skewed. The smell of something burning, somewhere, filled his nose. Get out, get out, get out, he told himself, and there was a door, he was running towards it but it kept getting further away.

There was a laugh from behind him. That laugh, a dark chuckle of insanity that echoed through the halls. “Oh Sherlock,” Moriarty tsked, tone pitying. “Did you really think you could ever escape me?”

Breathing ragged, Sherlock turned and faced the man, no longer in his padded cell but standing, suit clad, a mere metre away. “You don’t belong here,” he said, and was ashamed of the fear in his tone.

Moriarty grinned and shrugged, one shoulder lifting elegantly. “Says whom? I belong everywhere, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shook his head and cast a furtive look around, continuing to try and find a way out. “No. No, you’re dead.”

One of Moriarty’s eyebrows raised with amusement, but Sherlock could also see the way his dark eyes grew cold and shuttered. “And so are you, my dear,” he promised. The click of a door opening made Sherlock turn around, and then Mary was staring him in the eyes, face blank and arm raised, a pistol gripped confidently in her hand.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” she said, and pulled the trigger. In the split second before Sherlock felt the bullet pierce through his skin and muscle, he could hear the blood rushing in his ears and through his body, could feel gravity acting on every piece of him and every molecule of carbon dioxide leaving his lungs. No, he thought, but he must have said it out loud, because as he fell and hit the ground, Moriarty came to stand above him, looking down at Sherlock with his teeth bared in a wicked smile.

“Yes,” Moriarty whispered gleefully, and then everything was a blur of pain that faded into black.

With a gasp, Sherlock launched forwards, eyes open and chest heaving to fill his lungs with air, and Lord I never thought about how precious air is, how incredibly important oxygen is, must rethink my stance on breathing being boring because right now I am incredibly thankful for it. His arms were spread out on the mattress, trembling but still managing to hold him up. Weakly, Sherlock sat up all the way and moved backwards until his spine hit the headboard, propping his head up so he could stare at the ceiling, and exhaled with a shudder. His hands now gripped the sheets, twisting the fabric underneath his fingers.

Lestrade was stirring, rolling over slightly to look at Sherlock with bleary eyes; a ray of light from a streetlamp outside hit him at just the right angle, allowing Sherlock to see his face clearly. “You okay?” he asked, voice throaty from sleep.

Sherlock nodded, not trusting his voice, but instead of rolling back over and falling back asleep, Lestrade moved so that he was facing Sherlock completely, brow wrinkling in concern. Slowly, Lestrade reached out to him, pausing a few centimetres away but when there was no objection to be heard, he lightly touched his fingers to Sherlock’s trouser-clothed thigh. The warmth of Lestrade’s skin traveled through and Sherlock could distinctly feel the points where Lestrade’s fingertips made contact.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said, but the words wavered on the way out, and they were coloured with a note of panic.

Lestrade didn’t bother with the obvious response, just gradually moved closer until his body was pressed against Sherlock’s leg, head coming up to the junction of thigh and waist; his fingers slid across Sherlock’s thigh in a soft gesture of comfort. No words were exchanged, but the atmosphere was heavy with emotion as the two of them sat there. Outside the window, London went on in the sleepy fashion that came upon it with the late hours of the night that transitioned into the early hours of the morning.

Sherlock haltingly brought his hands up to wind them into Lestrade’s hair, gently carding through the short, soft strands as a way to ground himself fully in the moment. Moriarty is dead. And Mary is, well. She’s not here. As the minutes passed, Sherlock could feel his heartbeat slow until it was no longer knocking against his ribcage, the scent of smoke lingering from his nightmare being replaced by Lestrade’s unobtrusive cologne.

“I used to have nightmares,” Lestrade confessed, words half-whispered that floated into the relative darkness.

“Oh?”

Lestrade made a sound of affirmation in the back of his throat. “Hated them. Starting making my nights even later; but every time I closed my eyes…”

“When did they stop?”

Lestrade was quiet for a moment, contemplating his answer. “I suppose, in the end, it wasn’t as black and white as all that,” he began lowly. “But one night I drifted off to sleep and didn’t wake up with a soundless scream tearing at my throat. The next night I had another one, but eventually one night without them turned into two, and from there turned two turned into three, then four.” As Lestrade spoke, his fingers traced figure eight’s onto Sherlock’s leg, gaze focused on the endless swirls. “I still have them, sometimes. It doesn’t ever stop, it just...gets a little less bad.”

“That sounds abhorrent,” Sherlock said, tone full of disdain and weariness at the same time.

Lestrade turned his head to rub his nose against Sherlock’s leg in an indication of support. “You’ll get through it,” he told Sherlock, lips brushing against Sherlock’s trousers. “You think you won’t, but you will, and I swear I’ll be there to help you.”

Sherlock’s loose grip on Lestrade’s hair tightened slightly, and when he spoke again his voice was devoid of emotion. “That is an unrealistic promise, Lestrade; there is no way to be certain that you will always be there. Any number of things could happen- I could die, you could die, something could go incredibly wrong and-”

Lestrade twisted his head to look up at Sherlock, his hand moving from Sherlock’s leg to press a fingertip to Sherlock’s lips; the other man stopped speaking at the touch, lips slightly parted. Keeping his finger there, Lestrade moved so that he was sitting next to Sherlock, and replaced his finger with a soft kiss.

“I can promise it, Sunshine,” Lestrade whispered against the other man’s mouth, “because I have every intention of keeping it. But if you want me to refine it,” he said, drawing back, “I, Gregory Lestrade, promise to be there for you,” a soft peck to Sherlock’s forehead, then cheekbones, “Sherlock Holmes, until I am physically unable to.”

Sherlock’s eyes had fluttered closed at the beginning of Lestrade’s speech, relishing the warm, perfectly brilliant feeling that filled his chest and chased out the chill left from his dream. Lestrade’s cheek was pressed against his own, warm breath brushing against Sherlock’s neck. “I promise to do the same. To the best of my ability,” he replied softly.

“That’s all anyone can ask, Sunshine.”

Chapter Text

How’s Christmas with the family going?

Incredibly slow. -SH

Greg smiled down fondly at his mobile, clearly hearing the irritated tone Sherlock would have spoken the words with, if Lestrade had called him instead of texting.

Try not to kill anyone.

“Guv?” Donovan asked, and Lestrade looked up, remembered where he was. Texting at a crime scene...nice job, there, Greg.

“Yeah,” he replied, clearing his throat. “What’ve you got?”

Donovan rolled her eyes, but answered his question. “Well….we’ve got a poisoning. Or at least, that’s what Anderson thinks, but you know how Anderson is. If it isn't a gun or a knife, it's poison.”

“A poisoning?” Lestrade repeated, twisting his pen through his fingers. “Wonderful. Those ones are always a nice bunch.” He looked around the small alley where the body had been discovered by a sanitation man emptying the skip that the body had been hidden behind. The alley was dirty, the foul smell of trash permeating the air and suspicious stains on the pavement. “Any idea of whether he was killed here, or just dumped?”

Donovan shook her head. “Forensics is collecting samples, but there’s no way to tell until the lab analyses them.”

Greg ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “Right then. Let’s get all this wrapped up, get the samples to the lab and the body to the morgue.” Lestrade paused for a moment, then smiled slightly. “Not exactly how I was expecting to spend Christmas.”

Donovan smirked back as she flipped her notebook closed. “Holidays never goes as planned, do they Guv?”

“Molly,” Lestrade greeted as he opened the morgue door. “How are you?” She was still conducting the autopsy, white lab coat fluttering around her as she leaned over the body.

Molly twisted her head to give him a shy smile and a nod, even as her hands stayed buried in the victim’s chest cavity. “Hello, Lestrade.”

“Got anything for me?” Lestrade inquired as he came closer, taking the blood and exposed bones of the ribcage in stride.

Molly nodded. “Yes, actually. I found evidence of respiratory failure, as well as seizures.”

“Okay,” Lestrade said. “Does that get us somewhere?”

Molly looked at him and smiled again. “It does. At first, it looks to be accidental, or at least not murder. But,” she stressed, “then I noticed the abnormalities in the coagulation of the blood. From there, the symptoms kept coming: a torn up trachea, indicating extended amounts of vomiting, and there were a few torn muscles from the seizures- very severe .”

“And?”

“They’re all classic symptoms of being poisoned with water hemlock.”

“Hemlock?” Lestrade repeated, brow furrowed. “Who the bloody hell uses hemlock anymore?”

Molly shrugged and pulled her hands out of the corpse, stripping off her gloves and binning them.

“I don’t know. Someone with a flair for the dramatic, I suppose. But it should be fairly easy to trace, especially if they bought it off the internet.”

Lestrade ran a hand down his face. “As if I don’t have drama often enough as it is,” he sighed. “Thanks, Molly.”

“No problem,” Molly chirped from behind him as Lestrade walked away.

“Hemlock?” Donovan rolled her eyes. “Somebody’s being dramatic about killing a bloke.”

“That’s what I said,” Lestrade replied. “Anyway, Molly said that we would probably be able to trace the killer through online purchases of the stuff.”

“Okay,” Donovan said, and jotted something down in her notebook. “I think I can pull together some information. Molly still working on identification?”

“She sent over prints; they’re running them now,” Lestrade said. “We’ll have a debriefing in say, two hours?”

Donovan nodded. “Sounds good, Guv,” she stated, and began walking quickly back to her desk. Greg watched her for a moment, then turned away to go back to his own office. It being Christmas, the building was fairly empty, more quiet than usual. One of the officers who passed Lestrade in the hall gave him a nod, and Greg replied in kind before slipping into the lift. He jabbed the number for his floor, then stood there, staring up at the ceiling with his hands stuffed into his pockets.

This wasn’t the first Christmas he’d been on duty for; in fact, he’d probably worked more holidays than he had taken off. This was, however, the first Christmas that Greg had truly been disappointed to be called in for; Sherlock had extended the invitation to his parents’ house, and Lestrade had honestly wanted to come, but unfortunately the job had come first. And that’s okay with Sherlock, Greg reminded himself in response to the small pinch of guilt that rose up in him. Sherlock had even made a joke out of it, asked Lestrade if he was going to give Sherlock a murderous, interesting case for Christmas. Lestrade had smiled and replied. “If something comes up, I’ll try. Otherwise, you’ll have to settle for cold cases.” Sherlock had laughed at that, a small chuckle of delight.

Greg was brought out of his musings by the soft ding and opening of the lift doors; he stepped out and walked down the hall, mouth still slightly upturned by the memory.

“So,” Lestrade said, and looked down at the open case file in front of him. “Vic’s name is Benjamin Jenkins, thirty-two, of Edinburgh. Have we got anything else on him?”

“No criminal record,” said Kyle, one of the computer techs. “So that’s something. No apparent surviving family: his parents died just after he turned eighteen, no siblings or extended family so far as we can find. Had a job as a janitor a couple months ago at the British Museum, but after that, no record of employment.”

“Housing?”

Kyle shrugged. “Again, nothing recent. Small bedsit, but the lease was terminated mid-October, and there haven’t been any new leases signed in his name. Benjamin Jenkins just,” he made a waving motion with his hands, “dropped off the map. Completely.”

“Okay,” Lestrade said, and turned to Donovan. “What about the hemlock? Any leads there?”

Donovan grimaced. “Not really, no. It’s amazing how easy the stuff is to buy; a couple of keystrokes and you can get some delivered with overnight shipping. In the last two months alone, over a hundred people have bought some.”

“That’s...incredibly concerning,” Greg said, somewhat taken aback. “But not all of those died from it. Jenkins did. We need to find out what was happening from the time he lost his job and his living quarters until now. People don’t just disappear- someone, somewhere, knows what this guy was up to. Kyle, pull together a list of people we can talk to; co workers, neighbours, his landlord.” Kyle nodded, and rose to leave. Lestrade turned to Donovan. “Sally, I want you trying to narrow down that list of hemlock buyers, dig for any connection to Jenkins.”

Donovan nodded. “Got it, Guv. What’re you going to do?”

“Paperwork,” Greg said with a sigh, and shot Donovan a dirty look when she laughed.

The sky outside Greg’s office window was blazing orange with a brilliant sunset, layers of colour that tinged the atmosphere. Taking a break from the paperwork covering every available centimetre of his desk, Lestrade turned his chair around so that he could look out at the skyline, admiring the scene. It wasn’t often you got to watch the sunset like that, in London; it was cloudy, a lot of the time, obscuring the sun from view. But when you do happen to catch sight of it, it certainly is amazing to see. The sunset didn’t last long; as the light became dimmer, the sky turned dark and shadowy with the oncoming night. Within ten minutes, the sun had dipped away completely and the only light to be seen was that from a city full of electricity.

The blaring ringtone of Lestrade’s mobile shattered the calm, and with a short sigh he turned back to his desk and picked up the phone, answering with a curt, “DI Lestrade.”

“Prepare yourself for a trip, Inspector,” a voice said, and it took a confused moment for Greg to recognise the person who was speaking.

“Mycroft?”

“Yes,” the other man said tersely, and Lestrade began to pick up on the barely-reigned-in alarm in Mycroft’s tone.

“Why do I need to pack for a trip? I have a job, Mycroft, I can’t just leave.” Lestrade’s voice was quiet, but sharp with concern.

“Because Sherlock needs you,” Mycroft replied.

“Why does he need me?” Greg forced himself to keep a calm, rational outlook in the phone call. Don’t panic, stay steady. Now is not the time for hysterics.

“Because he shot someone,” Mycroft said, facade breaking and words coming out dipped in fear. “Sherlock shot Charles Augustus Magnussen, and now Magnussen is dead.”

Chapter Text

Greg barreled out of his office, slipping on his coat as the door slammed behind him. Jesus Christ, Sherlock. Mycroft, clearly trying to pull himself together, had told Lestrade that all the paperwork had been taken care of, and a car had been dispatched to meet him at the Yard.

“I’ll be there,” Greg had said hurriedly into the receiver, and had proceeded to hang up and quickly put the paperwork into something resembling a pile before leaving.

Now, Donovan stared as he dashed by. “Guv?”

“Can’t talk Donovan, have to go,” Lestrade snapped.

Donovan halfway rose from her chair and called after him. “Where? We’re in the middle of a case, Guv!”

Lestrade turned so that he was walking backwards and lifted his shoulders helplessly. “I have to- Sherlock’s in trouble. Look, I’m sorry, but-” he waved a hand in the air, “I have to. Someone will be in to take over for me.”

Donovan just stared open-mouthed as he continued down the hall, heart pounding in time with his quick steps. What happens now? Greg thought desperately as he took the stairs, deciding that waiting for the lift was a waste of time. Sherlock is a murderer now; the thought brought a vaguely sick feeling to Lestrade’s stomach. There had to have been a good reason, Sherlock is cold sometimes but he isn’t a murderer.

Greg was breathing fast when he hit the ground floor, purposefully striding across the lobby and shoving open the doors, ignoring the blast of cold air that hit him. It was dark outside, but as Mycroft had promised, there was an unassuming black car idling in front of the Yard, exhaust puffing out of the tailpipe. Greg stepped up to it, pulling open the door and sliding into the backseat. A glance at the driver confirmed that it was Mycroft’s car: his pretty-but-mysterious assistant was sitting behind the wheel. She gave him a small nod in the rearview mirror, but didn’t greet him before pulling out onto the street, competently weaving the car through traffic.

Lestrade was grateful for the silence; it let him focus on calming himself down, pushing down his fears and worries until he could think without feeling ready to scream with emotion. You can’t help Sherlock if you’re a broken down mess, he told himself, and breathed in through his nose, counting how long he held it before releasing on a steady exhale. He spared a moment of thanks for the fact that the ride to the Holmes’ house would take a while; even at night, with slightly reduced traffic, the cottage in Sussex would take some time to get to. At the same time, though, Greg’s skin itched with the desire to be there right now, to wrap himself around Sherlock and feel the steady beat of his heart, confirm that he was okay. The paradox of desires was disorienting, two halves of him pulling in opposite directions. But there’s nothing you can do about simple maths determining distance and time, he chided himself, so he concentrated hard on breathing and stared out the window at other cars and the city streets.

As the car pulled up the small driveway in front of the house, Greg felt his nerves manifest into a lump in his throat, heart picking up pace. All the lights were on, lighting up the house and the yard like a beacon; in any other context it would appear welcoming and warm, but now it just felt like an act of carelessness, or a way to banish the dark and along with it, fear. Greg tried to squash that last thought, but somehow it snuck through, and he flinched slightly when Mycroft’s assistant shut her door. Lestrade scrambled out of the back, standing up straight and listening to the sound of his shoes scuffing against the ground. The sound of his door shutting was loud in the stillness of the night, and Greg had to remind himself to breathe as he slowly walked toward the house, opening the front gate and holding it open for the assistant before continuing.

He walked up the front steps, raising his fist to knock, but before he could, the door opened to reveal a dignified, elderly lady, with sharp blue eyes and white hair.

“Are you the Detective Inspector man Myc was supposed to get in touch with?” she demanded, and Lestrade could immediately see the family resemblance in the way she spoke and held herself.

“Yes ma’am,” he said, clearing his throat slightly and pulling out his ID. “Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.”

Mrs Holmes gave him another calculating look, didn’t open the door any further. “Are you here to help my son?”

“Yes,” Greg replied honestly, and there must have been something in his face that convinced her, because she stepped back to let him and the assistant in. The front entrance opened into a short hallway, down which he could see a doorway to the kitchen. The house looked worn-in, but in a good way, like the people who lived there took care of it; it was the kind of place that would have made Greg feel at home, if he wasn’t so anxious. But he was, extremely so, and his hands were clenched into his fists where they hid in his coat pockets.

“Who is that?” someone called from further inside the house, and John appeared in the hallway from the kitchen. “Greg?” he asked when he saw Lestrade, plainly surprised by his presence.

“John,” Lestrade replied. “Where is he?”

John looked away and worked his jaw, clearly trying to maintain his calm. “I don’t know,” he said softly.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Greg snapped, and walked towards John. “You were supposed to have Christmas together, all of you!” he said, gesturing back at Mrs Holmes and then to Mary, who had come to stand in the kitchen doorway. “Not let him fucking kill someone!” The words left him in an angry outburst, not taking the time to consider them before he spoke; when their echo reached his ears, Greg winced and covered his face with a hand, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to regain control. The house rang with shocked silence.

“Greg?” John sounded hesitant, concerned. Lestrade closed his eyes tighter and held up his index finger, asking without words for a moment to pull himself together.

“Sorry,” he said at last, slightly hoarse. “Sorry,” he repeated, hand coming down from his face and looking at John, then Mrs Holmes, then Mary.

John’s eyebrows had a sympathetic tilt to them, understanding written all over his face. “It’s okay,” he said. “I understand.” There was another pregnant pause, then John spoke again. “Cup of tea? It might help calm you down.”

Lestrade nodded. “Yeah. That sounds...like a good idea.”

John turned and walked into the kitchen, brushing his fingertips against Mary’s as he moved past her, and Greg was again overwhelmed by the absolute need he felt to touch Sherlock. Swallowing tightly, he looked away, angling his head downwards as he entered the kitchen. John was pouring water, the kettle still steaming. Tea bags were dropped into the mugs, left to steep for a few minutes. When the tea was ready, Greg cradled the one he was handed between his palms, absorbing the heat that radiated from the ceramic.

Mary led them into the living room, taking the armchair directly in front of the fire; Greg and John took the sofa, and while Mrs Holmes and Mycroft’s assistant had gone into the kitchen, they had gone separate ways from there.

“It started out normal,” John said, once the three of them were settled. “Bickering, food preparation, Sherlock making snarky remarks. We,” he looked over at Mary, “worked some things out.”

Lestrade knew that John and Mary had been having problems for a couple of months, but hadn’t pried into what the reasons were. Mary smiled a bit at the glance John gave her, and Greg’s stomach twisted.

“And then,” John continued, “Mary blacked out. Turns out Sherlock had drugged the rest of the party, with the help of Wiggins.”

Oh God.

“We - Sherlock and I - went to confront Magnussen, force up some...sensitive information that he possessed. Sherlock took Mycroft’s laptop as a bargaining chip. But Sherlock,” John paused, looked away. “Sherlock got it wrong. Magnussen didn’t have anything physical; just a mind palace, like Sherlock’s, only Magnussen’s was full of dirty secrets.” John fell quiet after that, and Greg prompted him.

“Then what?”

John looked at him sadly. “Are you sure you want to know?” he asked, but just a glance at Lestrade’s face gave John his answer. “Okay. Magnussen laughed, said that he had ruined Sherlock Holmes, and that Sherlock couldn’t be the hero this time. Mycroft’s men were closing in, there was a helicopter….and Sherlock said, ‘I’m not a hero, I’m a high-functioning sociopath. Merry Christmas’, and he shot Magnussen in the head.”

Greg set his tea down on the table, rested his elbows on his knees and cradled his head in his hands. “What happened next?” he asked into his palms, voice completely wrecked.

“Mycroft managed to make sure Sherlock didn’t get shot too,” John replied. “They let me go, but took him away. The last thing I saw before being driven back here was Mycroft on his mobile, undoubtedly working out some kind of deal.” Greg could feel John’s stare on him. “But maybe,” he said quietly, “maybe Mycroft was really calling you.”

Slowly, Lestrade raised his head so that it was perched on top of his hands, a pose that sharply reminded him of Sherlock. “After all of this is cleared up,” Greg said lowly, staring into the fire, “and after I know that Sherlock is okay, you are going to tell me everything that you, and Sherlock, and Mary have been hiding for the past six months. And you are going to tell me,” he continued, speaking past the knot of feelings welling up inside him, “because it will not be in the capacity of a police officer but of a friend, and because I will never repeat anything you tell me.

“But I am tired, John, of being kept in the dark. Sherlock is undoubtedly the most important person in my life right now, and yet I keep finding out about things second hand, from either you or Mycroft. And I don’t want to have to worry anymore that someday, I won’t know the madman has gotten himself injured or worse until someone gives me a call.” Greg’s gaze cut over to John, though his head didn’t move. “Am I clear?”

John held his eyes for a long moment, looked at Mary, then back at Lestrade. “Okay,” he agreed softly. “Okay.”

Chapter Text

“I’m glad we’ve got that out of the way,” Greg said in reply to John’s agreement. John looked ready to say something more, but was stopped by Mycroft’s assistant, who stepped into the living room, mobile in hand.

“I’ve been told to take you to Mr Holmes’ location,” she said politely, and Lestrade and John exchanged a glance.

“Which of us?” John asked, and the assistant looked at him with raised eyebrows.

“The text specified the Detective Inspector.”

Greg’s gaze flickered between the assistant and John, unsure if that was fair. John is his best friend; shouldn’t he come along too? But John caught Lestrade’s eye and shook his head, expression solemn.

“Mycroft’s probably making sure I don’t get detained. Go, Greg. Make sure he’s okay.”

Lestrade nodded his understanding, unable to speak past the thickness in his throat, and rose from the sofa, following Mycroft’s assistant from the house. He didn’t catch sight of Mrs Holmes on their way out, so he said a mental thank you as he stood between the open car door and the backseat, sparing one last look at the house before sliding into the car.

The assistant, driving again, continued her trend of silence, keeping her eyes on the winding roads and effortlessly finding her way through the dark; she did not say where they were going. Full of anxious energy, Greg bounced his leg up and down, chewed on his bottom lip. Please let him be okay kept running through his head, like a record with a scratch that kept skipping.

Time quickly lost any meaning, the dark and all of the twists and turns blending together until Lestrade was completely lost, furthering heightening his worry. What kind of place is he being kept, that it has to be hidden in the middle of nowhere? The possibilities picked at his thoughts, images of a worse version of Baskerville filling his imagination; the kind of place that people like Moriarty were put in cells and the keys thrown away.

Eventually, though, the car slowed down to a stop, and Greg got out as soon as the engine was cut. The first breath he took gave a hint to where they were: there was a briny taste to the air, the kind that clung to the coastlines as an ever-present indicator of the sea. There was also the sound of crashing waves, muted by distance, that reached Lestrade’s ears as he followed Mycroft’s assistant. She carefully walked down the gravel path, their shoes crunching loudly in the silence. There was a slight incline to the trail, but as they walked Greg could begin to make out the silhouette of a small cabin from the surrounding dark; a single beam of light shone from it, dimmed by what turned out to be a dirty window as they came closer. When the assistant stepped up to the door and knocked sharply, three times, Greg could feel his heart beat faster, his breathing quicken with nerves.

There was a long moment where nothing happened, but then he could hear movement from the other side of the door, someone unlatching a chain and undoing a deadbolt; the knob turned, and the door opened to reveal Mycroft, who glanced at him evenly before turning his attention to the woman.

“Did anyone see you?” he asked the assistant, and she shook her head with absolute certainty. At her answer, Mycroft moved aside and let them in.

As Greg entered, he scanned the inside, quickly coming to the conclusion that this was some sort of a hideout, one the probably wasn’t official. The cabin was as small as it had looked from the outside; a table and three chairs were slid to the far right side, a kitchenette up against the opposite wall. In the middle, the wall was interrupted by a closed door. So this is something Mycroft had set up, Lestrade decided, but couldn’t determine what he thought of that. It must be difficult, living a life that requires you to have a safe house to be used at a moment’s notice.

Mycroft gestured to the table, so Greg moved in that direction, pulling out one of the chairs and sitting down; Mycroft did the same, though the assistant stayed standing just inside the front entrance, looking down at her mobile and typing rapidly.

“Is he okay?” Greg asked quietly, and Mycroft nodded.

“Physically, yes. He’s in the bedroom,” he said, tilting his head towards the other closed door, though a worried expression flashed across his face. “I don’t know if he’s okay mentally, however. For all he proclaims being heartless….” Mycroft trailed off, then picked up again with a shake of his head. “He didn’t speak at all on the way here.”

“Why here?” Lestrade asked, and looked around the small space once again.

“Because it’s safe,” Mycroft replied. “Or as safe as one can get, these days. It will take some time for me to work something out, make sure he doesn’t get executed or thrown in prison over this.”

Greg acknowledged that with a slight dip of his head, then voiced the question that had been burning in his chest since he’d gotten Mycroft’s phone call. “Can I see him?”

“Of course,” Mycroft said, as if that had never been in doubt, and Lestrade wondered for a moment how much, exactly, the other man knew. He didn’t ask, though, unsure if that was an answer he really wanted to receive. “Here,” Mycroft continued, and stood from the table to walk to the small counter space of the kitchenette and pouring tea from a teapot. Mycroft didn’t have mugs, but a true tea set; china teacups, with delicate brushstrokes decorating their sides. Greg followed him over, and Mycroft handed him a serving tray with the pot, cups, sugar, and cream.

“Give this to him,” Mycroft said. “It’s better than nothing.”

“Sure,” Lestrade replied softly, and, balancing the tray on one hand, opened the bedroom door and stepped inside.

The room was dark, and Greg had to take a moment to adjust to the lack of light before he could make out the features of the room. There was a small door on one wall, presumably leading to the loo; a bed took up most of the space, but that wasn’t where Sherlock was. His form was a skinny shadow standing in front of a small square window to the right of the bed, though what he was looking at Lestrade didn’t know.

Hesitantly, Greg shut the door behind him and sat the tea tray down on the duvet at the foot of the bed.

“What are you doing here, Lestrade?” Sherlock asked emotionlessly. His head did not turn away from the window.

Greg didn’t answer, just came to stand behind Sherlock and follow his gaze out the panes of glass to see a short strip of land that sharply dropped off into a cliff, revealing the ocean. He got close enough to feel Sherlock’s heat radiating off of him, and Lestrade let his head rest against Sherlock’s shoulder blade; the taller man still smelled the same, a scent that centered Greg and assured him that this was really Sherlock. He could hear the blood traveling through Sherlock’s arteries, the muffled thump of his heart, the sound of his breathing.

“Mycroft called me,” he finally said in response to Sherlock’s question.

“Why did you come?” Sherlock clarified, and God, the sound of Sherlock’s voice echoing through his chest was like music to Greg’s ears. “It would’ve been better, safer, if you had stayed away.”

“I’ve chased after you for almost ten years now, Sherlock. I’ve tracked down killers with you, jumped into the Thames to save your skinny arse from drowning. Do you really think I’d start worrying about ‘safe’ now?” Greg said quietly. “Besides. I made a promise. And I was worried.”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said dismissively, and Lestrade snorted gently in reply.

“No you’re not.”

Sherlock didn’t speak for a long moment. “No. I suppose I’m not,” he finally admitted.

“Come to bed. Have some tea,” Greg suggested. “Then, if you want, you can tell me.” Sherlock didn’t answer to that, but he let Lestrade lead him over to the tea tray with a faint tug on his wrist. Greg made the tea the way Sherlock liked it, sugar and and enough cream to make it turn milky; by this time, making it was practically muscle memory. He handed the cup to Sherlock, who took it and put it up to his lips to take a sip.

After preparing his own cup, Lestrade moved the tray onto the floor and sat next to Sherlock on the bed, close enough that their shoulders touched slightly. Greg didn’t speak, because him talking wasn’t the point, right now - that was up to Sherlock. So they sat in the darkness, drinking their tea and keeping each other company.

Just as the last of his tea was finished, Sherlock took Greg’s cup and put it, along with his, back on the tray before walking around the side of the bed to lie down, wordlessly asking Lestrade to do the same with an outstretched hand. Greg interlaced his fingers with Sherlock’s and followed suit, laying on his side so that they were face to face. Sherlock had an odd expression on his face, something that Lestrade would almost describe as haunted.

“He isn’t the first person I’ve killed,” Sherlock admitted. “But he’s the first person I pulled the trigger on.” After that, he fell quiet for a moment before continuing. “It’s different, feeling the kick of the gun in your hand and knowing that the bullet with penetrate their flesh and bone, knowing they’re going to die. Watching them crumple to the ground.”

Greg didn’t say anything, mostly because he didn’t know what to say. He knew about Sherlock’s time away after he’d faked his death, the plans he’d orchestrated that took down the web Moriarty had created. But it was different, doing it yourself. He’d only shot one person in the line of duty, and they hadn’t died; he couldn’t imagine what he would have done if they had.

So instead of opening his mouth, he untangled his fingers from Sherlock’s and brought his hand up to Sherlock’s face, running his thumb over a sharp cheekbone a few times before clasping Sherlock’s hand again.

“My mind,” Sherlock said, “usually thinks faster than you could ever imagine. A thousand different things grabbing my attention all at once, a train running off its tracks without focus. But for a split second, just as the trigger gave under the pressure, it was blank, in an utterly terrifying way.”

“I’m sorry,” Lestrade whispered, unable to keep the words in, and moved closer to brush his lips against Sherlock’s, then moving down Sherlock’s cheek and jawline. “I’m so sorry you had to do that,” he repeated, “and that I wasn’t there for you.” The words were smudged against Sherlock’s skin, slightly muffled, but Sherlock’s arms came around Lestrade to pull him closer until they were touching from chest to knee. When Sherlock spoke again, his breath ghosted through Greg's hair.

“You’re here now."

Chapter Text

Greg woke up to the sound of people murmuring, and had to take a moment to remember where he was. Murky grey light shone in from the window, illuminating the room slightly as he looked around. Sherlock wasn’t in the bedroom anymore, and Greg had to push down a small flicker of panic. He’s fine. Mycroft’s here. So instead of running out of the room to search for Sherlock, and in the process make himself look like an idiot, Lestrade rolled onto his back and stared up at the wooden beams that made up the ceiling. He was still clothed, but the room was chilled; hauling himself off of the bed, Greg walked into the loo, sincerely hoping the cabin had hot water.

If the bedroom was small, the bathroom was positively tiny, a toilet squeezed in between a narrow shower and a sink. But the shower had heated water, and Greg stripped down as the space filled with steam. The water felt incredible, the hot spray working out the kinks in his back and washing away the tightness in his muscles that had become more and more pronounced throughout the past day.

And Christ, it had really only been a day, hadn’t it? A day since Mycroft’s phone call and now; less, if you considered the fact that Mycroft had called in the evening. Greg shook his head in wonder at how little time had passed. It feels like it’s been weeks. But really, he thought as he grabbed the conditioner, that’s how it always is with Sherlock. He makes everything seem...more, somehow.

When the water started to cool, Lestrade turned it off and stepped out, drying off with the towel that hung on the rack by the shower. It was soft, and undoubtedly some ridiculously high thread count, so Greg took his time, drying his hair too. When he stepped out of the loo, there was a stack of neatly folded clothes sitting on the bed. Looking at them, Greg was positive they weren’t anything from his closet - they were just pants, socks, jeans, and a long sleeve thermal, but he couldn’t afford those brands -yet everything fit perfectly. As he pulled the shirt over his head and ran a hand through his hair, Greg decided to be thankful about that, instead of creeped out.

Sliding into his shoes, Lestrade walked over to the door and opened it, peering out into the front room, where Mycroft sat at the table, staring down at a pile of papers. At the sound of the door, Mycroft looked up, and flashed Greg a weak smile.

“Morning,” Lestrade said. “Where’s Sherlock?”

Mycroft flicked his fingers over his shoulder. “Outside. Before you go out to see him, however, I’d like to speak to you for a moment, if I may.”

“Uh. Okay,” Greg replied, and licked his lips nervously. Please don’t let it be bad news.

“Have a seat,” Mycroft said, gesturing to the other chair at the table, so Lestrade sat down across from him, elbows planted on the tabletop. When he was seated, Mycroft continued.

“I have worked out a possible solution to the situation,” he stated, and held a hand up before Greg could ask what it was. “I will let Sherlock tell you what it is. Before it can be carried out, however, I must visit London and work a few details out with certain influential members of the government.”

“You have to convince them it’s better than nailing Sherlock to a wall, you mean,” Lestrade said flatly. Mycroft looked at him and raised an expressive eyebrow.

“A slightly less tactful way of saying, but that’s the gist of it, yes.”

Greg held Mycroft’s gaze with his own, his next words coming out deadly serious. “If you fail, I will find a way to make sure you lose everything.”

“That is a heavy statement to uphold.”

Lestrade didn’t back down. “Doesn’t make it any less true.”

Mycroft tipped his head slightly, but didn’t say anything more. After another moment of eye contact, Greg stood up from the table and walked out of the cabin to find Sherlock.

It was cold outside, the wind coming in off the sea and the chilly fog overhead. Greg shivered slightly, but decided it wasn’t worth going back inside to get his coat for. So he walked around, took in the things he’d missed the night before due to the dark. Past the gravel path that led up to the house, there was small patches of seagrass growing amongst the sandy dirt. Walking around the side of the cabin, Lestrade could see the toll living by the sea had taken in the weathered look and feel of the wood.

He found Sherlock at the back of the cabin, standing a few metres away from the edge of the cliff, staring out at the sea. His coat billowed out slightly behind him, and as Greg came closer he could see the familiar blue scarf wound around Sherlock’s neck. He stopped a few steps away from Sherlock, standing next to him and following Sherlock’s line of sight to watch the waves crash against the rocks below.

“Mycroft said he’s worked something out,” Lestrade said over the sound of the tide.

Sherlock snorted, a soft, derisive sound. “Has he told you what his ‘plan’ entails?”

“No. He said you would tell me.”

“Of course he did. Mycroft never did like breaking the news to people.” A pause. “I’m going to Eastern Europe, for six months.”

“Um. Well,” Greg rubbed the back of his neck, somewhat confused. “That’s..not so bad, then, is it? A few months in the Continent, then you can come back.”

“I won’t be coming back Lestrade. At least, not if it goes as Mycroft expects it to.”

“What- what do you mean?” Greg asked.

“Christmas morning. Mycroft said he had a job for me. Then he told me to decline. So I did, and he said he would pass on my regrets. Turns out it was a MI6 job, undercover.”

The pieces began to fit together in Lestrade’s mind. “And...you would be dead. In six months.” He looked over at Sherlock, caught the other man’s short nod, and felt his stomach roll. “Jesus. And Mycroft...is okay with this?” he demanded to know.

Sherlock shrugged a shoulder. “It’s the only real option.”

“No,” Greg said, shaking his head, “No, Sherlock, that is not an option. That’s suicide! How can your own brother be willing to send you to that fate, knowing what will happen?” By the end of the question, Lestrade’s voice was choked with anger and fear.

Sherlock’s cold fingers curled around his own, and a soft squeeze made Greg look at Sherlock, tears threatening to escape. It isn’t fair. He’d just gotten Sherlock back, and now he was just supposed to let him go?

Sherlock’s eyes were full of weariness, but there was still a spark of fight left in them. “He’s doing it because it is the lesser of the evils. Staying in England will spell my death or life long imprisonment. If Mycroft can get me over to Eastern Europe,” he paused, and took a ragged breath, “there’s still hope that I might be able to make it out alive, and from there, return home.”

“That’s a horrible plan,” Greg said brokenly, and stepped close enough to pull Sherlock into a hug, Greg’s arms winding around Sherlock’s neck and gripping tightly at his coat. Sherlock’s arms came up to hold Lestrade at the waist, clasping just as tight.

“I agree,” Sherlock said, voice rumbling, and Greg held him closer with a choked-off laugh that came out more like a sob.

“You’re not supposed to agree with me,” he whispered into Sherlock’s ear. “Holmes’ are always contrary.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock replied. “We’re quite agreeable creatures,” he continued, and Greg’s heart clenched painfully. Not knowing what else to do, he buried his face into Sherlock’s neck, breathing him in.

They stood there, embracing each other for dear life, until the sound of someone clearing their throat made Lestrade reluctantly pull back, though he held onto Sherlock’s hand as he faced Mycroft. At least he looks guilty, he thought as he took in Mycroft’s appearance.

“The car is ready to go back to London,” Mycroft said, and tapped his umbrella against the ground. “Sherlock must stay here until I have an answer, but I thought you may want to go home, Inspector.”

Greg looked between the two brothers; Mycroft, polite and distant, and Sherlock, who turned his head from Lestrade’s gaze. Decided, Greg shook his head.

“No, thank you. I’m staying.” He could feel Sherlock stare at him, but didn’t look back.

Mycroft appeared slightly surprised, but hid it quickly. “It may be a few days before I will have any results.”

Lestrade shrugged and spared a quick glance at Sherlock, who looked shocked. “Doesn’t matter. I’m staying.”

“Very well,” Mycroft said. “I’ll have my assistant bring some necessities in for you later today.”

Greg nodded to show he heard, but ignored Mycroft as he walked away, turning back to Sherlock.

“You could have gone,” Sherlock said softly. “I wouldn’t have blamed you.”

Lestrade pressed his lips to Sherlock’s for a moment, then pulled back. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I couldn’t.”

Sherlock searched his face for a long minute, but finally nodded. Greg mustered up a smile, and then swept a small peck across Sherlock’s cheek.

“How about some tea? It’s bloody cold out here.”

“I’d be amiable,” Sherlock replied, so Lestrade tugged on Sherlock’s hand and led them back into the cabin, determined to make the most of the time they had left.

Chapter Text

Two days after Mycroft left for London, Greg woke first, pulling up the covers to ward off the nip that seemed to be the norm for the early hours. The bedroom had its customary grey lighting, and as he laid there, Greg wondered when this cabin had become so familiar. Sherlock was still asleep beside him, curled close to Lestrade’s side; his curls were in complete disarray, mouth slightly open as his chest expanded and contracted with even breaths.

Greg’s heart clenched painfully at the sight; throughout the past two days, he’d been watching Sherlock more closely, re-realising his beauty even as they bickered good-naturedly about what they could make for a meal out of the small stash of supplies Mycroft’s assistant had brought them. Almost as if I’m trying to commit him to memory, Lestrade thought, and reached out to brush his fingers through the locks of hair, causing Sherlock to lean into the touch before falling more deeply into sleep. A stab of pain went through him at the movement; he couldn’t imagine not being able to do this anymore, not being able to touch Sherlock or chastise him for fighting with Anderson at a crime scene.

Or maybe I can, he thought, as the memories from the time when he thought Sherlock was dead came to mind. And maybe, in some way, that made it worse, because Greg knew exactly how that had been, it had been hell, and he hadn’t even felt the way he did now. It’s going to be so much worse.

Forcing himself to breathe past the jagged shard of pain that went through him at the thought, Lestrade gently pressed his lips to Sherlock’s forehead before slowly pulling away and leaving the bed.

“Mycroft sent a text.” Greg’s voice almost got whipped away by the wind, but by Sherlock’s pause before he sat down, he had still heard. After he’d gotten out of bed- still trying to pull himself from the train of thought about Sherlock leaving that was threatening to derail him - Lestrade slipped on his shoes and coat before coming outside. He’d stood at the brink of the cliff for a moment, feeling the wind lash at him, then sat and dangled his legs over the edge, wiping the moisture away from his eyes. His nose and ears had just begun to go numb when he’d heard the sound of Sherlock’s footsteps behind him.

“Oh?” Sherlock said once he’d mirrored Lestrade’s position, even allowing his legs to hang down. His voice was calm, but the quick glance he flicked to Greg was cautious.

“Said he’ll be here early this afternoon to pick us up.” He’d seen the message as he was walking around the side of the cabin, causing Greg’s stomach to drop sharply as he read the words on the screen.

“I’m surprised it took him this long,” Sherlock replied. “I’d have thought his people would be all too willing to get rid of me.”

“Well,” Lestrade began, but found that he didn’t know how he should continue. So he just looked down at the water crashing against the rocks, then pulling back to make room for another wave.

“I’m...grateful, though, for the extra time,” Sherlock continued, and Greg looked up to find Sherlock looking at him with the most raw expression Lestrade had ever seen on those features. And that much emotion, that much sentiment, coming from Sherlock, made Greg’s throat tighten.

“Yeah,” he whispered hoarsely, and slid his fingers between Sherlock’s, “Yeah, Sunshine. Me too.”

When the sound of tyres on dirt alerted them to the approach of Mycroft’s car, Lestrade took a deep breath and mentally pulled together all the pieces of himself that had slowly become more scattered with the ticking of the clock. By the time he and Sherlock walked out to meet them, Greg was almost confident that he didn’t look shattered.

The driver this time was a burly security man, separated from the back by a panel of glass; Mycroft was sitting with his back to it. Lestrade and Sherlock sat on the opposite side of him, and Greg couldn’t resist gripping Sherlock’s hand in his own. This is really happening.

“Sherlock, Inspector,” Mycroft greeted them cooly, and tapped twice on the glass to signal the driver. “As you’ve probably deduced by now, I was able to convince my peers in London that Sherlock would be more helpful to them in Eastern Europe. There’s a jet waiting on an airfield to take you there.”

Sherlock nodded shortly in reply, but Lestrade forced himself to speak up. “Is there time to make a detour into London first?”

Mycroft looked at him oddly. “Well, yes. But I rather thought that you’d want to say your farewells at the airfield. Doctor Watson and his wife will be there.”

Greg turned his head to catch Sherlock’s eye, trying to communicate how he felt. I can’t say goodbye to you there. It would feel...too final, somehow, and I don’t want final. I want to be able to hold out hope that you’ll come back. It must have gotten through, because Sherlock dipped his head slightly and gave his hand a short squeeze before speaking to Mycroft.

“We’ll drop Lestrade off in London,” he said simply.

“Very well,” Mycroft said in reply, and didn’t say anything further.

Greg kept hold of Sherlock’s hand, but couldn’t bring himself to talk; instead, he stared out the window and watched as the terrain changed, more and more houses and cars appearing as they got closer to the city. He glanced over, a few times, at Sherlock, who was doing the same from his window; Mycroft was tapping out something on his mobile.

Eventually, they reached London proper, and it was odd, seeing so many people in one place after a few days away from everyone except for Sherlock. It was only a few days past Christmas, so there were still decorations strung up everywhere, along with gaudy advertisements. There were barely any clouds, but the pavement was still wet from where it must have rained that morning.

Greg wasn’t sure how the driver knew, but as they drove the streets became increasingly familiar until the car came to a stop outside of Lestrade’s flat. There was a short moment where Greg didn’t move, overwhelmed, before he let go of Sherlock’s hand and got out of the car, blinking a bit at the change in brightness as he closed his door. The sound of another car door opening made him turn around, just in time to see Sherlock ducking out of his end of the car and coming around to stand in front of Lestrade.

“Didn’t think you’d be one for goodbyes,” Greg said, forcing his lips up into something halfway resembling a smile. Sherlock took a few steps away from the car, and he followed.

“I’m not, usually,” Sherlock said with a shrug. “But I find myself...oddly reluctant to leave.”

Greg smiled a bit more genuinely at that, and stepped closer to pull Sherlock into a hug.

“Take care of yourself, Sunshine,” he said roughly over Sherlock’s shoulder, and felt Sherlock’s arms around him tighten.

“You too, Lestrade,” Sherlock replied.

“Always.”

After another moment, Sherlock pulled back, and Greg cleared his throat, at a loss for what to say, despite all the words he’d been thinking throughout the morning that were clambering to leave his mouth.

“Right then,” he said, finally, and maybe Sherlock knew exactly what he meant because with an understanding nod and only a split second of lingering he turned away and got back into the car. As soon as the door shut behind him, the driver took off, and Greg watched as it drove down the street, not turning away even as it disappeared around the corner, feeling a bit lost. Logically, he knew that it was probably the last time he’d see Sherlock, but something still felt unfinished, hanging in the balance.

Don’t be daft, he told himself, shaking his head. There’s nothing that can be done for it. Sherlock isn’t coming back this time, and the only loose end is the fact that you left in the middle of a case, and you left your car in the car park for days. Forcing himself to turn away, he  toward his flat to get some money, so that he could take the tube and find a pub, hoping that the burn of alcohol going down his throat would take away the hollow, broken feeling in his chest.

Chapter Text

“England?” Sherlock said sharply, looking out the plane window as it turned round and began heading back to the airstrip. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Moriarty,” Mycroft replied, even and calm. Too calm, Sherlock thought. He’s always calmest when he’s terrified.

“Moriarty’s dead, Mycroft. Surely you’ve picked up on that by now?”

“It seems we may have been mistaken.”

The jet touched down just as Mycroft spoke the last word, causing Sherlock to jolt a bit as he tried to wrap his mind around what he’d just heard. Mistaken? How? I saw him, he shot himself in the head...But even as he tried to justify what he’d seen, things began falling into place: the lack of brain splatter, the presence of so very little blood.

“I need everything you can get me from that day on the roof. All the surveillance you had on me at the time. Any CCTV footage from the streets surrounding it.” The plane was coming to a stop, and Sherlock stood, preparing to leave. He crossed the small cabin and waited impatiently for the stairway to drop down.

“Of course,” Mycroft was saying. “Anything else?”

“Pick up Lestrade. We’ll need him for this.” Finally. As soon as the stairs touched the tarmac below, Sherlock was making his way down the steps, hanging up the phone as he wound through the corridors of his mind, already locating doors that had been firmly shut since his return.

John and Mary were standing side by side just a few feet away; John looked a bit worried, but also completely prepared, same as always. Mary just seemed perplexed, as if her world had been turned upside down. And in a way, it has. No amount of experience could ever fully prepare one for Jim Moriarty.

“John, lovely to see you again,” he said quickly, then turned to Mary. “You have two options.”

Mary raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Mycroft could easily move you into a safe house. You’d be fine, be able to safely carry the baby.”

“Or?”

“Help us.”

“Help- Sherlock, you can’t be serious,” John interrupted, but Sherlock didn’t deem that worthy of an answer because obviously he was being serious.

“You have skills,” he said to Mary. “Skills that could be incredibly useful against him, especially since I don’t doubt the fact he’s got minions.”

Mary looked over at John, already nodding, and John didn’t protest, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“Christ,” he sighed, then looked up at the two of them, determined. “Alright then. Let’s go find Jim fucking-Moriarty and destroy him. For good, preferably.”

Sherlock, in spite of the large amount of uncertainty and dread of having to deal with Moriarty again -two years, I spent, and it’s not over yet - felt a lopsided smile tug up at the corner of his mouth. “The game is on,” he stated simply, with a wink towards John, and started towards the car.

As Greg watched the fuzzy picture on the telly screen start to clear, his stomach filled with dread. No. It’s not- he’s dead, how can he be-

“Did you miss me? Did you miss me?” The voice kept oscillating between squeaky and low, and Moriarty’s mouth moved slightly with every reiteration, manic smile still in place.

Sherlock. The acrid taste of fear filled Lestrade’s mouth at the thought of the man, who was probably already on a jet to the Continent. But they’ll bring him back for this. Of course they would. Unable to stand the pub any longer, he threw a few pounds on the bar before striding out, hands in pockets in an attempt to hold himself together; the scene that awaited him outside, however, wasn’t much better.

It’s everywhere, he realised sickly. Every shop window with a telly, every electronic advertisement board. Jim Moriarty is on every fucking screen in London. Every screen in England, knowing his flair for the dramatic. Shaken, he walked down the street quickly, throwing up an arm at the corner to hail a cab, thankful when one pulled over within a few seconds.

As he slid into the back, he realised that he had no idea where he wanted to go - where could he go? The only place he wanted to be was with Sherlock, making plans and preparing himself for the hell that was undoubtedly coming. But that’s not an option, is it? he asked himself, and leaned forward to speak to the driver.

“Uh...sorry, I got in this cab, but I’m not...I don’t know where I’m going,” he admitted sheepishly. “Can you just drive around, a bit? I’ll figure it out in a moment.”

“Oh, no rush, Detective Inspector,” the cabbie said cheerfully, and the alarm bells were just beginning to go off in Greg’s head when the driver turned to face him. “I’d love to spend more time with you. Never really got a chance to after the incident with the crown jewels.” His eyes were cold, like an arctic wasteland of callousness, even as his mouth turned upward in a childishly bright smile.  

Oh God, Lestrade thought, heart pounding. Jim Moriarty is driving my cab. I am so fucked.

As Sherlock strode confidently across the airstrip, he could hear, faintly from behind him, a murmured conversation between John and Mary.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes, John. I think...you’ll be throwing yourself into this, won’t you? And I understand that, I do. But I want to be there, and if I can help….”

“Yeah.” John sounded like he was concerned, and Sherlock could perfectly picture the pinched, worried look he would have on, eyebrows drawing together and a downward turn to his mouth. “I just. It’s Moriarty. And the baby…”

“Will be fine. And the sooner we get this worked out, the sooner we can relax.”

Sherlock just caught the beginning of John’s agreement before addressing Mycroft, who was already sitting in the car, looking down at his mobile.

“Mycroft,” he said, and his brother looked up.

“Yes?” he asked, in that incredibly insufferable way of his, and Sherlock had to give in to the urge to roll his eyes.

“Lestrade. Have you picked him up yet?”

“Lestrade?” John repeated from behind him, and Sherlock turned to pin him with a look.

“Yes. Lestrade. We need him.” I need him. Safe. John seemed to understand, nodding in comprehension; Sherlock looked back at Mycroft, who now had a slight twist to his face. It was the face his brother got when he was worried, but trying to to show it. No.

“The man assigned to him is unsure of the Inspector’s location.”

“What do you mean, he’s not sure?” Sherlock snapped impatiently. “I thought your tails were competent.”

“Well of course they are,” Mycroft sniped back. “Clearly you don’t realise how much of an uproar this little stunt,” he gestured to the small screen in the car, where Moriarty’s face was still grinning, “caused. My people will find him at any moment.”

“Oh, that makes me feel perfectly fine, now, thank you brother for being so reassuring,” Sherlock growled back. “For God’s sakes, this is the worst possible time to lose him, what happens if Moriarty finds him? You are completely-”

“Sherlock,” John interrupted on a sigh. “Why don’t you just call him?”

Sherlock paused for a moment, still ready to continue his tirade, but grudgingly admitted to himself that John had a good idea. “Fine. Give me your mobile.”

Sherlock shifted impatiently as the phone rang, feeling a small sense of relief when the line picked up. “Lestrade,” he said agitatedly. “Where are you?”

“He’s in the back of my cab,” a familiar, excited voice said, and Sherlock froze.

“What have you done?” he demanded icily.

Moriarty made a small sound of disapproval. “Really, Sherlock. You should know me better than that. Your Inspector is fine. And I must say, he really is fine,” he said mischievously, and Sherlock could just imagine the predatory smile that Moriarty would give Lestrade through the rearview mirror of the cab as he twisted through London’s streets. “A true diamond in the rough, he is. I’m amazed you’ve not touched this lovely body, Sherlock - I’m practically dying to run my fingers through that hair.”

Sherlock’s gut clenched with something he was unable to label, some mixture of fear, anger, and disgust. Distantly, he was aware of John looking at him, confusion and worry written over his features, but ignored him and stepped away from the car. “What do you want?” he said lowly.

“Oh, Sherlock. Don’t ask stupid questions. You know how they bore me,” Moriarty chastised. “And for the moment...I just wanted to say hello. Isn’t that what old friends do?”

“Let Lestrade go.”

“Well of course, Sherlock; it would hardly be any fun to burn him now. No,” Moriarty said dreamily. “I want it to be slow, when I do, and I want you to be aware of just how ordinary and useless you really are. I may have missed the mark before, but don’t worry, Sherlock; I’ll hit it dead on this time. Ah, I’m afraid I must bid you adieu - we just pulled up to the Yard. Au revoir, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock’s hand shook slightly as he lowered the phone from his ear and turned to look at John. “It was Moriarty. He picked Lestrade up in a cab.”

John cursed under his breath. “Call him back.”

Fingers fumbling, Sherlock redialed the number, releasing an exhale of relief when Lestrade answered, sounding a rattled but unhurt.

“Sherlock,” he said breathlessly. “Jesus fucking Christ that was terrifying. I don’t think I’ll be able to ride in a cab for a good while after that. How did you survive dealing with that man on a daily basis?”

Sherlock ignored the question. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Lestrade said on a sigh. “Yeah, I’m fine. Outside of the Yard now.”

“Good. Mycroft will be sending a car over there, to take you to Baker Street. We’ll meet you there; we’ve a lot to do.” Sherlock paused for a moment, took a deep breath. “I’m…” he said, but couldn’t find the words he was looking for to continue.

“Me too, Sunshine,” Lestrade said softly, seeming to know exactly what was going through Sherlock’s mind. “Me too.”

Chapter Text

When Mycroft’s car pulled up at Baker Street, Lestrade had to take a moment to pull himself together before exiting; Mrs Hudson was most likely at home, and it wouldn’t do, for anyone to see how rattled he was from a cab ride with Moriarty.

The wood of the door was rough against his knuckles as he knocked, and Greg rocked back on his heels for the minute it took for Mrs Hudson to come to the door. She opened it cautiously at first, but when she caught sight of who it was, a soft smile spread over her face.

“Oh, Inspector,” she greeted him warmly. “How nice to see you again. Please, come in,” she said, and stepped back to let him in.

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” he replied. “I’ll just be upstairs, waiting for Sherlock, if that’s alright.”

“Of course dear,” she said, then paused for a second. “Are you here about the man on the telly?”

Lestrade cleared his throat a bit and looked down at the floor. “Ah, yes.”

“Good,” Mrs Hudson said definitively, and patted him softly on the shoulder. “You make sure Sherlock stays safe. The dear has a tendency to forget that sort of thing.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said, flashing her a quick smile, then heading up the stairs, taking comfort in their familiarity.

The flat still looked the same, too, all clutter and things pinned to walls. Fortunately, there weren’t any active experiments in the kitchen, from what Greg could see, and he only hesitated for a moment before deciding it wouldn’t be too improper of him to make a cuppa. The kettle looked clean enough, but just to be sure, he rinsed it out before filling it with water and setting it to heat; on the highest shelf of the cabinets, he found a row of mugs and glasses that were clearly labeled with ‘Do Not Use For Experiments’, and had to smile a bit at something that was clearly a remnant of John’s time at Baker Street. The tea was hidden away in a drawer, but there was an unopened box of Earl Grey that would do just fine.

A few minutes later, the tea was steeped and Greg moved into the living room, moving a small pile of books before collapsing onto the sofa, back pressed against the armrest and legs pulled up almost to his chest. Don’t think about it, he reminded himself as he took a cautious sip of tea. Nothing happened, he let you go. Everything's alright. The rest of his small pep talk was broken off, though, by his mobile vibrating in his pocket. Pulling it out with a sigh, Lestrade opened the message, taking note of Donovan’s name on the ID.

Everything okay, Guv?

No, not really, he thumbed out in reply. Moriarty’s back. I’ll be back in tomorrow or the next though.

Well that’s bloody fantastic.

Greg had to smile at Donovan’s attitude about the whole thing; she’d be frustrated, and probably swear a lot, but she’d stand by them and help if she could, especially after what had happened the last time they’d had a run-in with Moriarty.

Lestrade set his mobile down on the coffee table - or a stack of papers that were on top of the coffee table - and turned back to his tea, taking the time to relax before the storm.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock stated as he swept through the door, saying those simple eight letters as if they were the equivalent of a thousand words.

“Sherlock,” Greg began to say, but was cut off by Sherlock snatching his tea away and then hauling him off the couch to wrap him into a hug. It was awkward, uncomfortable, with Lestrade being held too tightly and his nose getting mashed into the side of Sherlock’s neck, but it was also warm and caring and precisely what Greg needed, so his arms came up around Sherlock’s waist to hold him back.

“Hey there,” he whispered, lips brushing against Sherlock’s skin. “I’m okay, Sunshine. Really.”

Sherlock didn’t reply and just tightened his grip. There was the sound of someone clearing their throat from the door, but Sherlock didn’t let go right away, only letting Lestrade slide away with another quick squeeze.

“Hello John, Mary,” Lestrade greeted the couple standing by the door, and ran a hand through his hair in a small gesture of embarrassment when he realised Mrs Hudson was standing there too, a sly grin on her face.

“Greg,” John said in reply, and stepped forward to shake his hand. “Good to see you again.”

“Yes,” a new voice said, and Lestrade looked up just in time to see Mycroft walk through the door. “Always a pleasure, Inspector.”

“Can we please,” Sherlock said exasperatedly from behind them, “move past pleasantries and get down to business?”

“Of course,” Mycroft began, but John interrupted him with a pointed look towards Lestrade.

“Actually,” John said, “Greg and I have to do some...catching up to do, before we join in on the planning. Does Speedy’s work for you?”

“Yeah,” Lestrade answered, glad that John hadn’t forgotten their agreement. “We’ll be back in a bit,” he said to Sherlock. “Just some things we need to talk about.”

Sherlock looked confused, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed in an attempt to try and deduce what the subject matter was going to be, but didn’t protest as Lestrade and John made their way by Mycroft and Mary - who looked a bit worried, mouth pinched - and down the stairs.

Speedy’s, for whatever reason, was fairly empty, and Lestrade and John took one of the tables by the front windows after ordering a coffee each.

“So,” Greg said, breaking the silence, and John looked up at him.

“So,” he repeated, then glanced away with a nervous chuckle. “I...God, I have no idea how to say this,” he admitted, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck.

“Do it like a plaster,” Lestrade suggested. “All at once.”

“Right,” John blew out on a large exhale, and paused for a moment before saying, “Mary used to be an assassin.”

Lestrade sat there, blinking at John for a moment. “What?” he finally asked, unsure if he had heard correctly.

“She used to work for...organisations. CIA, British Secret Service. That sort of thing. And then she started going freelance and she was….” John trailed off, then looked like he was forcing himself to continue. “She was one of the bad guys, Lestrade. And then she went into hiding, took on a new name.”

“Mary isn’t her real name?”

John shook his head. “I mean, not technically, I suppose. But now...I don’t know her by anything else. Magnussen had information on her, and he used it against her. Or threatened to, anyway. She was there, the night Sherlock and I broke into Magnussen’s office.”

“Your wife shot Sherlock,” Greg realised, feeling ill.

John propped his elbows up on the table and scrubbed his hands down his face. “Yeah,” he whispered. “She did.”

“What the hell, John?” Lestrade said, consciously keeping his voice down because it was either that or fucking scream. Why would you let her do that? Why would you let her get away with it? Sherlock almost died!

“I know, I know,” John said into his hands. “I felt the same way, when I found out. Christ, it’s why I moved back into Baker Street, why Mary and I were having problems.”

“How could you-” Greg began, but couldn’t continue the question, feeling physically sick.

“Sherlock didn’t want me to. He was...insistent, in saying that while what Mary did wasn’t right per se, it was more complicated than a simple desire to injure Sherlock. He called it ‘damage control’.”

“That doesn’t make it better,” Greg whispered hoarsely.

John was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was more calm, and he held eye contact with Lestrade. “She helped get the ambulance there.”

Greg shook his head. “No, no, that was you,” he denied, pointing at John. “You saved Sherlock.”

“I called the ambulance, yeah. Three minutes later. Mary, Magnussen, one of them did it first, though.” John let out a shaky breath. “He would have been dead, for good.”

Lestrade tried to even out his breathing from its frantic gasps. It’s okay. You’re okay. Sherlock’s okay. “Right,” he said at last. “Then what?”

“When I found out, I was. God, I was so angry. And Mary gave me a flashdrive, with all the things that could tell me about her past life. I kept it, for almost six months, stared at it every morning when I woke up, and wondered if I should read it. But at some point, I realised that I just,” John shrugged. “Couldn’t. It would be the final step in destroying everything we’d had together, and I wasn’t ready to do that.”

“So what did you do?”

John smiled faintly. “I threw it in a fire, Christmas morning, and told Mary we’d work it out, somehow. And since then, we’ve been talking a lot; she’s told me a bit about some of her operations, and coming back into the normal world. She went through hell, Greg, and I don’t know how much Sherlock knows about it, but he killed Magnussen so that Mary doesn’t have to live in as much fear for her safety.”

Greg took a moment to work through that, trying not to let his emotions override what John was saying. Sherlock helped Mary. Sherlock, on some level, trusts Mary. “Okay,” he said, after a long moment. “It’s going to be hard, for a while, but-” Lestrade nodded, partially to himself. “I can do it.”

John gave him a relieved smile. “She’s going to be helping out, with Moriarty, if that helps any.”

Lestrade felt the corner of his mouth tug up and lifted up his coffee cup in a mock toast. “To ex assassins and psychotic villains.”

“Cheers to that,” John said, and they lightly tapped cups before drinking.

Lestrade wasn’t sure how long he and John had stayed in Speedy’s, but by the time they walked out there was a bite to the air, and the sun had disappeared behind the buildings. When they entered 221B, Sherlock was standing in front of the couch, staring at the wall that was now covered with pictures and a complete map of London. “What about that one?” he asked as Lestrade and John walked in, pointing at the map, and there was a confused moment where Greg thought Sherlock expected him to answer, before Mary spoke up.

“No; too low. Look more towards middle to upper storeys,” she said calmly from where she was sitting at the desk by the window. “They like higher vantage points; makes it easier to pinpoint a target.”

Greg walked over to where Sherlock was standing, letting his gaze wander over the different pins on building surrounding Bart’s before asking, “What’s all this, then?”

Sherlock didn’t take his eyes off of the collage when he answered. “Moriarty didn’t die on the roof. Therefore, someone had to create the sound of a gunshot; sniper, then. We already know that he employed a string of them to follow you, John, and Mrs Hudson - one more would be quite easy to find. So,” he gestured to the map, “we’re finding all the likely hideouts for a sniper that would give them easy access to the roof of Bart’s. Then, we’re going to see if we can find anything on the CCTV or Mycroft’s personal security footage.”

Lestrade nodded, and was getting ready to respond when a yawn snuck up on him. With a sigh, Greg rubbed his eyes and blinked to refocus on the wall, determined to do something useful. “Right then. What can I do to help?”

“Get some sleep,” Sherlock said simply, and just as Lestrade opened his mouth to protest, to say I’m fine, I can help, just give me something to do and a few more cups of coffee, Sherlock moved his head just enough to look Greg in the eye.

“Get some sleep, Lestrade,” he repeated, but it was kinder this time. “Mary and I only have a few more places to get through, and you haven’t slept properly in days. You can use my bed.” The words were still factual, but less harsh. Concerned, almost.

Another yawn came through him, and Greg smiled and nodded wearily in defeat. “Okay,” he said softly, and pressed a quick peck to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “Night, Sunshine,” he said, then shambled down the hall to Sherlock’s bedroom.

Chapter Text

Lestrade changed into a pair of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms and a grey t-shirt, appreciating the way the almost-too-big clothes hung off of his limbs in the perfect amount of bagginess. He washed his face, used the bathroom, then slid into Sherlock’s bed.

It wasn’t the first time he’d slept there, but it was the first time that he could hear the murmurs of Mary, John, and Sherlock traveling down the hall from the living room; Greg took a bit of comfort in the sound, eyes sliding closed as he drifted off.

As Moriarty navigated traffic, the same off-kilter smile stayed plastered on his face, and he hummed slightly under his breath. His fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel, and Greg tried to push down the black ball of fear in his gut.

“So,” Moriarty said as they turned a corner, gaze moving to the rearview mirror to connect with Lestrade’s. “Tell me: what is it like, working with Sherlock Holmes?”

Lestrade shrugged, affecting nonchalance. “You’d know just as well as me.”

Moriarty laughed at that, an airy giggle that made Greg’s stomach roll. “Oh no, Detective Inspector,” he replied. “I know what it’s like to work against Sherlock; I want to know what it’s like to see him in action, as they say, whether it turns you on to watch that mind tinker. I’ll tell you though,” he continued, even as he smoothly merged into a new lane, “You’re wasting your time with him.”

Every part of Greg’s being was screaming at him to not encourage Moriarty, that it would only make things worse, but he still felt his mouth open and ask, “Oh?”

“Yes,” Moriarty said, drawing the word out and wrinking his brows in mock seriousness. “He’ll never fuck you.”

The meager contents of Lestrade’s stomach threatened to come up at the mental image the words provided, even as Moriarty continued.

“It’s a shame, really; if you were mine, I’d make you beg for it, until you were whimpering with desire, like a dog in heat. You wouldn’t be able to help yourself. It would be hard, and dirty, and it would ruin you for everyone else. Or perhaps,” he said, and now his tone turned conversational, as if he were discussing the weather, and Greg tried not to show how much the words affected him even as he swallowed down bile. Don’t let him see it, don’t let him know how much that disgusts you.

“Or perhaps,” Moriarty repeated, as if to be certain of Lestrade’s attention. “I would do it slowly. Make it hurt, until you were covered in sweat and wanted to come, but couldn’t until I let you. Is that more your style, Inspector?” His eyes met Lestrade’s again, but with no answer, shrugged and refocused on the cars around them. “I think you’d do well, as a pet; and of course, there are the perks of your job, as well. Always useful to have a policeman in your bed - they’ll do such lovely things for you when you ask. Wouldn’t you say?”

Greg was saved from having to answer by the sound of his mobile ringing. Thank God please let it be Sherlock, he thought as he dug it out of his pocket, but was stopped from picking it up by Moriarty’s cool fingers covering his own.

“What a naughty boy,” Moriarty chided, tightening his grip, and Greg could stop the shudder of revulsion at the skin that was as cold as a corpse against his own. “I’ll take that,” Moriarty continued, and slid the mobile out of Lestrade’s hand before bringing it up to his ear.

Whoever was on the other end of the conversation spoke first, and when Moriarty replied, his voice was full of excitement. “He’s in the back of my cab.”

Another pause, then, “Really, Sherlock.”

At the sound of Sherlock’s name, something in Lestrade buckled under an invisible weight, though whether it was in relief or fear, he couldn’t tell. Sherlock knows where you are. Sherlock’s still alive. These are all good things. His thoughts, though, were snapped off when Moriarty glanced at him, feral smile overtaking his face.

“And I must say, he really is fine,” Moriarty said, with a wink in Lestrade’s direction. “A true diamond in the rough, he is,” Moriarty continued, though his eyes stayed fixed on Lestrade; Greg wondered how it was they hadn’t crashed yet, and for one split second, hoped to anyone that was listening that it would happen, that they would slam into another car or swerve into a building, because at least then Moriarty would be dead and even if Lestrade died too, that would be okay. He was dimly aware of the rest of the phone call, but the conversation barely drifted in one ear before it slid out the other.

“Ah, I’m afraid I must bid you adieu - we just pulled up to the Yard. Au revoir, Sherlock Holmes,” Moriarty said crisply, then hung up the phone. Surprised, Lestrade looked out the window to find that yes, they were outside NSY, its familiar exterior looking like a safe haven in comparison to the cab. He reached for the door, but was stopped by Moriarty tutting.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Fear spiked in Lestrade’s chest. “Let me go, or don’t, but don’t play games.”

“Hmm….” Moriarty tapped his chin thoughtfully, light he was weighing his options, before in the blink of an eye he reached out and sunk his fingers into Greg’s shoulder - oh Jesus when did he get into the back with me when did that happen - and pulled, hauling Lestrade closer over the seat.

No no no please no, he thought as Moriarty continued dragging him close, and tried to twist out of his grip; it didn’t work, though, and the space between them became smaller and smaller until their lips were only a breath away from each other and all Greg could think was please don’t no and Moriarty chuckled darkly before leaning the last few millimetres…..

Greg woke up thrashing, trying to throw off the constraints around his legs; something touched him on the shoulder lightly - the same shoulder he grabbed, no, don’t let it be real - and Greg scrambled away. “No, no, no,” he shuddered.

“Lestrade,” someone said softly from behind him, and slowly Greg began to realise that no, it wasn’t Moriarty behind him, and the bed he was lying in had a familiar smell; a combination of cologne, chemicals, and shampoo. Sherlock.

“Sherlock?” Greg asked shakily, and the voice spoke again.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, and Lestrade let all of the tension bleed out of him as he slumped back onto the bed.

“Everything okay?” he inquired. Did I yell? Is something wrong with John or Mary?

“You’re the one who just had a nightmare,” Sherlock pointed out, but the words were coloured with concern.

Lestrade, breath still coming in heaves, rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling; out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sherlock hovering by the side of the bed, just visible from the light coming in from the hall. “Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “I guess I did.”

Sherlock fidgeted, looking unsure of something, until Greg realised what it was he wanted, and patted the mattress.

“Come here,” he murmured, and untangled the sheets from his legs.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Sherlock asked. “You flinched away from my touch before. It’s quite possible that it will happen again.”

Greg sighed. “Yes, I’m sure.” Then, almost too quietly to be heard, “Please.” At that, Sherlock only hesitated for another second before pulling off his dressing gown and sliding into bed beside Lestrade. He didn’t come close enough to touch, though, and Greg had to physically pull Sherlock’s hand to his shoulder to initiate contact, closing his eyes in comfort at the warmth of Sherlock’s fingers.

“Thank you,” Greg whispered, and Sherlock slid closer until Lestrade could feel his body heat radiating outwards. Sherlock’s hand spread out from his shoulder, his fingers drawing small designs over Greg’s back.

“It was about Moriarty,” Sherlock said, and the words weren’t a question; Greg only nodded in response.

“I’m. Sorry,” Sherlock said, some time later, the words sounding foreign coming from him.

“I’ll be okay,” Greg assured him, and moved forward until his head was pressed against Sherlock’s chest, breathing in the scent of his t-shirt (fresh, like laundry detergent). “Promise. Just….stay?”

“Of course,” Sherlock whispered, and slid one arm around him while the other came up to card through Greg’s hair, soothing him back into sleep.

Chapter Text

When Greg woke up again, he was lying on his stomach, arms buried under the pillow. Sherlock was draped over his back, his face pressed into the crook of Lestrade’s neck; Greg smiled drowsily at the warmth of Sherlock’s breath brushing against his skin. Cracking his eyes open, Greg glanced over at the clock that sat on the bedside table, and groaned when he saw the time. “Already nine?” he muttered, and started trying to extract himself from underneath Sherlock. “Shite. Have to get to the Yard…”

Sherlock made a dissatisfied sound, and pulled him closer, nuzzling his nose against the nape of Greg’s neck. “Where are you going?” he complained.

Lestrade paused in his attempts to break free and huffed slightly. “I have to go to work, Sherlock. Now let me up.”

“No. Don’t want to.”

Greg sighed and tried to roll away, only to have Sherlock turn with him until Lestrade was on his back and Sherlock was sprawled over his chest. “I’ll make you breakfast,” Greg suggested hopefully.

Sherlock propped his chin up on one hand and looked at Lestrade, his expression a mix of sleepiness and annoyance. “Fine,” he grumbled, but slid upwards to kiss Lestrade before rolling off of him. “I want eggs. And toast. And tea.”

Greg let out a soft laugh and got out of bed, leaning down to ruffle Sherlock’s hair and peck his forehead. “You got it, Sunshine,” he said, deciding that the Yard could wait a bit longer, and ambled out of the bedroom, hearing the sound of the shower start up.

The living room was deserted - I guess John and Mary took the upstairs bed, then. There was still evidence of the work that had been done, however, from abandoned mugs that had once held tea or coffee to the map pinned on the wall, now sporting more pins and string.

Greg continued into the kitchen, still blessedly free of disturbing chemicals, and opened the fridge; inside, he was surprised to find a container of eggs and carton of milk, and wondered if someone (Mycroft) had had shopping delivered. Either way, at least there’s something to use for breakfast. Humming softly, Greg pulled out the eggs and milk, hunting down a bowl to whisk them up in and a pan, finding both with a bit of poking around in the cupboards. The pan was set on the stove to heat, and the eggs were prepared; when the pan was hot enough, Lestrade poured the eggs in and managed to find a wooden spoon to stir them with.

The bread was conveniently sitting on the counter next to the toaster, so Greg just had to pop in a couple slices as the eggs were close to being finished; just as he was plating the food, the kettle clicked off and Sherlock came out from the bathroom, clothed in a new t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, hair still wet and less fluffy than usual. When Lestrade finished putting the plates on the table, and moved to pour the hot water for tea, Sherlock hugged him from behind and pressed a soft kiss to the back of his neck.

“Good morning to you too,” Greg joked, and leaned back slightly into Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock hummed in response and held him for a moment more before stepping back and taking a seat at the table. Greg stayed standing until the tea was steeped, added the milk and sugar, then sat across from Sherlock, who was already eating.

“Good?” Greg asked, and Sherlock looked at him as if to say, don’t ask stupid questions.

“Of course it is.”

Lestrade smiled. “I’m glad. Do you remember if I have any clothes stashed here?”

Sherlock took a second to think about it before nodding. “Yes. Jeans and a t-shirt. They’re in the back of my drawers.”

Greg nodded. “Good. I’ll need something to wear to the-” Yard, he was going to say, but was cut off by the sound of his mobile ringing; the sound cut through the quiet of the flat, and instead of finishing his sentence, Lestrade just sighed and stood, walking into the living room and unburying his mobile from where it was hidden under papers on the coffee table.

“Lestrade,” he answered.

“Guv,” Donovan said, sounding a bit relieved that he’d picked up the phone. “Good to hear your voice. Anyway, I was just calling to see if you’d be in today.”

“Yeah,” Lestrade replied. “Why? Got something new for me?”

“No,” Donovan said, “but we may be getting some new info on that hemlock case- you remember, bloke named Benjamin Jenkins?”

“Yeah, I remember; not exactly something you forget right away. I’ll be there in say...forty five minutes?”

“Sounds good, Guv. See you then,” Donovan said, then disconnected. Sighing, Lestrade tossed his mobile a little bit into the air and caught it before walking to the kitchen doorway and leaning up against the door frame.

“Looks like I’ve got to get moving,” he said apologetically to Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugged. “You made me breakfast. I’m fine now,” he said, but the words were softened by his teasing tone.

Greg chuckled. “I’m going to have a quick shower, get dressed, and then I’ll be out of here,” he told Sherlock, then walked down the hall and ducked into the bathroom.

Lestrade rather liked the bathroom at 221B; it was larger than his own, and the large shower/tub combination didn’t hurt matters. On the few occasions he’d stayed the night before, he’d luxuriated in the shower the following morning, standing under the spray until it started to go cold and his fingers turned wrinkly.

This morning though, he didn’t have the time to indulge; sighing in regret, Greg got out while the water was still steaming hot and quickly dried off, whisking the towel over his body and rubbing it vigorously over his hair. He wrapped the towel around his waist, then padded into Sherlock’s room and over to the dresser drawers. Just as Sherlock had said, in the back of the second drawer, there was a pair of pants, dark wash jeans, and a t-shirt.

Relieved, Greg pulled on the clothes, mentally thanking his past self for having the forethought to leave some clothes here; wearing the same suit he had yesterday would have been extremely unpleasant. Once dressed, he realised he didn’t have any socks, so he filched a pair from Sherlock’s collection that didn’t look like they would be too big and slipped on his shoes before quickly walking out of the bedroom.

Sherlock was still sitting at the kitchen table, slowly working his way through his breakfast; when Greg reappeared in the doorway, he looked up, a small smile pulling at his mouth.

“Hey,” Lestrade said, slightly breathless. “I’m off,” he continued, and hurriedly crossed over to Sherlock to press a kiss to his cheek. “See you later, yeah?”

“Indeed,” Sherlock said, amused, and Lestrade flashed him a grin, then turned and left, barely pausing to snag his coat from the rack before he opened the door and dashed down the stairs, halting for a moment halfway down.

“I’ll call if something interesting comes along!” he yelled back up to the flat, then continued down the stairs, already planning out what tube line he’d have to take to get to the Yard in half an hour.

A few moments after Lestrade left, John came plodding down the stairs, and walked into the kitchen wearing a large bathrobe over his pyjamas. “Morning,” he said, then seemed to notice the almost-empty plate in front of Sherlock, and the half-eaten one sitting across the table. “Who made breakfast?”

“Lestrade,” Sherlock replied. John nodded, like he understood completely, even as his mouth frowned in confusion.

“Did he…” John jerked a thumb in the direction of the front door, and Sherlock nodded in response, calmly sipping his tea, already knowing precisely what John was going to say next.

“So…” John began, walking around Sherlock and refilling the kettle. “What exactly is going on between you two?”

“We’re in a relationship,” Sherlock said, and couldn’t keep the corner of his mouth from tipping upward in amusement. “Honestly, John, I’d have thought that would be a bit obvious.”

“Ah, well, yes,” John said uncomfortably, and cleared his throat and looked at the kettle like he was willing the water inside to boil faster. “It’s just. A bit odd, isn’t it?”

“What, exactly?” Sherlock asked, after swallowing another mouthful of tea. “That I’m in a relationship, or that it’s with Lestrade?”

“I...don’t know,” John replied, turning away to pour the water into his mug. “I guess I never really thought about you two like that. Not that,” he said hurriedly, looking at Sherlock with an earnest look on his face, “it’s a bad thing. Not at all. You two seem happy.”

Sherlock paused at that, running the word through his mind. Happy. Is that what it is? He thought about the warm feeling of care that occupied his chest whenever Lestrade was around, the sense of peace and rightness he’d felt earlier that morning when he’d woken up, feeling the rise and fall of Lestrade’s chest underneath him; the strength of the affection he had for the man. Then he thought of Lestrade, who smiled more around him, who had pulled him closer last night.

“Yes,” he said simply. “I suppose we are.”

Chapter Text

When Lestrade walked out of the lift, Donovan was waiting for him, manilla folder tucked under her arm. “Guv,” she greeted. “I’m glad you could make it back. Is…” she trailed off. “Is everything okay?”

“It is for now,” Greg replied. “I’ll catch you up soon; right now, though, you said you had something on the Jenkins case?”

Donovan nodded and started walking down the hall towards a conference room. “Yup. Kyle’s got the screen hooked up to show you.”

When they walked into the conference room, Kyle was turning a remote over in his hands, then flipping it up into the air and catching it. “Lestrade!” he said enthusiastically. “Good to see you.”

“Thanks, Kyle. Donovan said you have something to show me.”

Kyle nodded and adjusted his glasses before clicking the remote; on the screen of the large television that hung from one of the walls, Benjamin Jenkins’ photo popped up.

“So. Benjamin Jenkins. Originally, we found no criminal record, and so we assumed that meant he hadn’t done anything illegal.”

“That’s...the usual assumption to be made, isn’t it?” Lestrade asked, confused.

“Well yeah, of course. But,” Kyle raised a finger, and then clicked the remote again, “I figured that a guy who just vanishes off the face of the Earth has to have some kind of shady past, right? So I did another sweep, this time looking into medical history, expunged records, any kind of a whisper as to what he’s been doing with his life.”

Lestrade decided not to ask if all of those things were technically allowed, and motioned for Kyle to continue.

“And it turns out that Mr Jenkins was not at all a good person; he was admitted to rehabilitation centres multiple times, and when he was a minor, he was arrested for dealing. Somehow, his solicitor managed to get him probation and therapy, instead of jail time.” Kyle gestured to the screen. “I managed to find some old paper records, took some photos and copies; there’s one on your desk.”

Greg nodded in acknowledgment, and then Kyle continued, looking a bit excited (and eccentric, too, what with his brown hair that constantly stuck up at all angles). “Also, the autopsy report came in today from Miss Hooper. She found,” he clicked, and a picture of Jenkins’ pale face popped up, then a graph beside it, “traces of long term drug use in his system.” Kyle looked at Lestrade and Donovan, eyes wide. “Even within the past few months, which means that after Jenkins went underground, he was somehow making enough money - or knew enough people - to get access to cocaine. There was still remnants to take a sample with, and Miss Hooper said it was high quality as well; wasn’t cut with anything.”

Well now that’s interesting. “Good work, Kyle. This gives us a couple more points to work off of; now, we need to try and fine Jenkins’ dealer - both his dealer as a kid and over the past few months.”

Kyle nodded eagerly. “I’ll get on it,” he promised.

A soft tap on the conference room door made Greg look over just in time to see a vaguely-familiar sergeant poke his head into the room. “DI Lestrade?” he asked hesitantly.

“That’s me,” Lestrade said with a small wave, and the sergeant’s face took on an expression of relief.

“Oh good, you’re here. The Chief Superintendent wants to talk to you.”

Fuck, Lestrade thought, and sighed internally as he followed the sergeant out of the conference room. After Sherlock had returned from the dead, the old Chief Superintendent had stepped down, and a new man (Landon York, Lestrade recalled) had been instated; it had been York who had finally given Lestrade a case that wasn’t a pointless stakeout, which Greg was grateful for. But York was still new to the job, and Lestrade had no idea if he would be accepting of one of his DIs jetting off without warning.

When they reached the Superintendent’s office door, the sergeant knocked lightly and waited for the man inside to boom, “Come in!” before shooting Lestrade an indecipherable look and scurrying away. Lestrade watched him duck into another room, then took a deep breath and reached for the door handle.

The Chief Superintendent looked up from his paperwork when Lestrade entered, and gestured to the cahirs in front of his desk. “Have a seat,” he said, and waited until Greg had done so to continue.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he stated, the words falling like rocks from his lips. “You have been an incredibly difficult person to deal with in the past few years, according to your record.”

Lestrade kept quiet, aware of the fact that it wasn’t a statement open for discussion, but refused to look away from York’s gaze. If he’s going to fire me, he’ll have to look me in the eye.

“But you’ve also been doing better, since Holmes got back. Your case rates have gone back up, even though you haven’t consulted with him on most of them. I prefer to have Detective Inspectors working for me that are good at what they do, Lestrade, and you have proven that you are, in fact, quite good at your job, regardless of whether or not you need help from Sherlock Holmes. So, I’m going to ignore the fact that you had some fishy paperwork that got ‘misfiled’ that allowed you to take off for a few days without any notice.”

What? Greg blinked in surprise at the unexpected turn in York’s speech. “Thank you, Sir,” he said finally, and the Superintendent smirked a bit.

“You’re welcome, Lestrade. Now, tell me: is there anything I should be worried about?”

Greg hesitated for a moment before telling the truth. “I don’t know, sir. If something comes up, though, I’ll tell you.”

York nodded and leaned back slightly in his chair. “Good enough for me,” he said. “Go catch some criminals, Lestrade.”

Lestrade nodded in return and left without another word.

Donovan dropped into his office a few hours later, a little out of breath as she leaned into the room. “Kyle’s in the conference room, Guv. Something important.”

Her sense of urgency was caught by Greg, who only paused to cap his pen before rising from his desk and hurrying after her. Kyle was bent over a file in the conference room, it’s contents spread out over the entire table; as he read a document, his mouth moved slightly, pen tapping against the paper in the hurried, staccato tempo of a nervous habit.

“What’ve you got, Kyle?” Greg said sharply, and Kyle jumped slightly, clearing his throat when he realised it was just Lestrade and Donovan.

“So I was pouring through the old records,” Kyle said. “I mean, actual paper records, in boxes, searching for any information on who Jenkins’ dealers could’ve been. I looked at demographics, arrest warrants, court documents, trying to root out who would have been the most likely dealer based upon those aspects. I compiled the data into these webs,” he said, and tapped two large maps of London that were lying on the table. “one for childhood, one for adulthood. And I came up with two names. For the childhood one, Max Carlson, and for the adult dealer, Harold Koning; that’s where it starts to get creepy.”

“What?” Greg asked.

Kyle blew out a breath. “I ran both of their names through the system, to find out what kind of past they had. Carlson went to a boarding school in Ireland after his brush-ins with the coppers, but dove right back into the game after he went to uni; another flag came up next to the boarding school’s name, and I clicked on it - turns out the school was also attended by Richard Brook, the alias that Jim Moriarty took on for himself. Koning’s name popped up in relation to a fruitless drugs bust a couple years ago, where Narcotics suspected a bigger man was in the background, but couldn’t prove it. After Moriarty died, Koning was prosecuted and is now spending ten to fifteen in prison.” Kyle’s eyes were wide. “These men were part of Moriarty’s web.”

Shite. Greg closed his eyes and scrubbed a hand down his face. Looks like we’re going to be in for a bumpy ride. “Moriarty isn’t actually dead,” he said to Kyle, whose mouth opened slightly.

“What?”

“He faked his own fucking suicide, like Sherlock did,” Lestrade said impatiently on a sigh, and ran a hand through his hair before pulling out his mobile and thumbing through his contacts. He’ll want to know about this.

“Who are you calling, Guv?” Sally piped up from beside him, and he looked over her with a raised eyebrow.

“Who do you think?” he asked back as he listened to the phone ring. “The only man who can solve this and finish it once and for all- Sherlock.”