Fic: Nor The Years Condemn (6/6) - Complete
Title: Nor The Years Condemn (6/6) - Complete
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, DI Lestrade
Pairing: Lestrade/OCs (mentioned); Lestrade/Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don’t own them
Word Count: c. 6,200 (this part); c. 37,000 total
Warnings: Language; Age Discrepancy; Mild Sexuality; Drug Use
Spoilers: None
Betas: sidneysussex, gentlest_sin, archea2
Summary: Greg Lestrade is forty-three when he saves the life of a brilliant drug-addict. Two years later, he's starting to realize there are some certainties to his life now that Sherlock Holmes is part of it. He's going gray quickly, for one thing. He starts finding experiments in his kitchen. And he may even be, inexplicably, beginning to care for the detective. A series of vignettes that cover the five years leading up to “A Study In Pink.”
Prologue (with full Author’s Notes)
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Notes Part Six: In ASiP, Mycroft appears to refer to “Mummy” in the past tense, so we’re going to pretend that there’s a reason for that. One line of dialogue was blatantly inspired by an episode of Doctor Who. For those of you who may have been wondering about the mild sexuality warning attached to this fic, this is where it comes into play.
With this final installment, we are now up to the eve of “A Study in Pink,” and this is where I leave you. Thank you all of your kind comments throughout this posting process and, as ever, feedback is always appreciated and welcome.
----
Sherlock’s mother dies on a Saturday in September - crisp and clear; the air heavy with the scent of turning leaves. Lestrade doesn’t hear of it until the beginning of the next week, when they have to call the detective out for a triple homicide on a bus.
“I will have the results to you by Wednesday,” Sherlock tells him when he’s finished examining the bodies and has determined what experiments he’ll need to run in order to check an alibi.
“Tomorrow would be best, Sherlock,” Lestrade tells him calmly as he’s scribbling in his notebook, knowing full well that Sherlock sometimes overestimates how long it’ll take him to conclude an experiment so that it looks impressive when he gets the results to Lestrade early.
“That may well be, Lestrade,” Sherlock says, snapping off his gloves, “but as my mother’s funeral is tomorrow, I regret that I won’t be able to indulge you. Wednesday will have to do.”
He sweeps from the scene then, leaving a dumbfounded Lestrade in his wake.
Sherlock isn’t heard from again for days - and Lestrade’s tried - but on Saturday morning he gets an abrupt text at an obscene hour from the man.
Montague Street, at your convenience.
There is a pause while he considers his answer, but in that amount of time Sherlock sends off another text:
By which I mean, now.
He’s at Sherlock’s flat within twenty minutes, and finds it in a state of carefully-controlled chaos. There are boxes stacked chest-high in the living area, boxes in the doorway, and boxes sitting out in the hallway because there isn’t enough room in the flat for them. Sherlock is standing by the window when Lestrade enters, squeezing past the partially-obstructed doorway that serves to remind him that he needs to start keeping a closer eye on his waistline.
“What’s all this?” Lestrade asks.
“Boxes,” Sherlock replies irritably, “of my mother’s things. Mycroft was ever so kind to drop them off while I was out. He thought I might like to sort through them.”
“You don’t?”
“I have better things to do with my time, Lestrade. However, it appears they contain a number of books which could prove useful in the future, so it’s not all a complete loss.”
“So...you want some help sorting through all of this?”
“It would make the process go faster if you were to help,” Sherlock says, glancing up only briefly from the box of books that was currently commanding his attention. Lestrade clears his throat as Sherlock’s gaze falls away from him, and puts his hands in his pockets because he doesn’t know what else to do with them.
“Look, Sherlock, I never said -” he starts.
“Don’t,” Sherlock says sharply, cutting him off. “I don’t require sympathy.”
Lestrade clears his throat again and shifts, watching the detective. He looks the same as ever - even sounds the same. His voice doesn’t waver and hasn’t taken on the tone of tight control that he adopts when particularly agitated. He seems unaffected by it all, or at least seems to have completely accepted the death. Lestrade wouldn’t believe anyone else who said they were fine after losing a loved one, but he’s inclined to believe Sherlock - for the moment.
“Death is as natural as breathing,” Sherlock says, flipping open a book as he talks. “And as boring. So please stop obsessing about whether I’m telling the truth and get on with helping me.”
“All right,” Lestrade says, rolling up his sleeves past his elbows. “Tell me what you need.”
Sherlock nods once; sharp.
“I only intend to keep the books, and only a few of them at that. However, these boxes are highly disorganized. I need you to pull everything that isn’t a book,” he snags an empty cardboard box and throws it at Lestrade, “and toss it in here to be disposed of later.”
Lestrade opens the box nearest to him and glances inside. It’s filled with tiny figurines, mostly porcelain cats and turtles.
“Knickknacks?” he says.
“Irrelevant. Toss them, Lestrade,” Sherlock orders. “Everything.”
“Right,” Lestrade says, and sets the box behind him.
Lestrade opens another, and comes across mostly books. They are obscure and ancient titles, from the looks of the spines, and he hands the box off to Sherlock. The rest of the morning passes in this manner, and it takes several hours for them to complete the sorting of the books. Sherlock will stop every so often and show him something in one - an illustration of Nelumbo lutea; a passage in Old High German; a tome on beekeeping. Sherlock gifts him a book on galaxies, which Lestrade protests until Sherlock fixes him with an earnest look and a low, “I want you to have it.”
He’s never been able to say no to Sherlock for very long.
They come across more personal items mixed in with the books, and each time Sherlock orders them binned. Lestrade obliges and sets them aside, with every intention of getting all of the doomed items into Mycroft’s hands. He has the feeling that the elder Holmes is a tad more sentimental than his brother.
Lestrade opens the final box while Sherlock is organizing his bookcase (by subject first, followed by author and title).
It’s filled with photographs.
Sherlock notices Lestrade’s sudden stillness and walks over to him. He peers inside the box and sniffs when he sees the contents.
“You would find this interesting,” he says disdainfully.
“Is this you?” Lestrade says, pulling out a photograph of a young man that happens to be lying on the top of the pile.
“You can see very well that it is,” Sherlock points out, and that’s true enough. It’s Sherlock before he met Lestrade, but not much before - he’s clearly university-age and is sitting with his head buried in a book, unaware of the camera’s presence. Lestrade asks because he hopes it will elicit some explanation, but of course none comes.
“Toss them when you’re through being amazed that I was actually younger than twenty-five once, Lestrade,” Sherlock tells him, returning to his books.
Lestrade does as he’s told, but secrets away the picture of Sherlock and slips it into his book. If Sherlock notices - and he’s sure that Sherlock does - he doesn’t say anything.
And when the picture appears on his desk at work some weeks later - well, Sherlock doesn’t say anything then, either.
----
Sherlock starts to take an unusual interest in Lestrade’s hair. He notices the detective staring at it one day, even though they’re investigating a body discovered on the shore of the Thames and Sherlock has always found water-logged bodies fascinating. It happens again a few days later, when he’s sitting in on an interview with a witness (highly unusual and generally frowned upon, but Lestrade’s not the only one anymore who makes exceptions for Sherlock). His eyes keep traveling back to Lestrade’s head, which is highly distracting for the Detective Inspector. He knows he’s gone gray, and fast, and doesn’t particularly enjoy being reminded of it.
“What, Sherlock?” he demands finally one day at the Yard, as Sherlock is trying to tell him how a suspect’s alibi is full of holes. His words are distant, though, and lack their usual punch as he’s delivering his information. And, of course, Sherlock’s line of sight keeps landing somewhere north of Lestrade’s eyes. “What could you possibly find so interesting up there?”
“Nothing,” Sherlock says, “it’s just - do you realize that it does that?”
“Does what?”
“It’s -” Sherlock reaches up and touches it lightly with his fingertips. Lestrade can feel it sticking up - he’s run a nervous hand through it more than once today, and it generally defies his quiet wishes anyway. “It just sort of - is everywhere.”
“Yeah, I know,” Lestrade mutters, and it’s a habit now, running his fingers through the mass of gray. He does it now, dislodging Sherlock’s hand. “I’ve never really had any control over it, and since I cut it shorter...”
“It’s distracting,” Sherlock concludes. Lestrade snorts and steers them back to talk of the case.
“My hair is distracting,” he says later, still in slight disbelief. He’s lying on the sofa with his head in Sherlock’s lap, recovering from a mild headache while Sherlock brushes his fingers across the top of his head.
“Anything that contradicts the laws of gravity like that is something that I find quite distracting,” Sherlock says, nodding in agreement, “and I believe your hair falls under that category. Now sit still - I’m in the process of investigating it.”
Well, Lestrade muses, who was he to impede scientific progress?
----
He’s alone in his office one night when his mobile rings, and for a split-second he considers not answering - calls after midnight are rare, and usually Not Good. But it’s Sherlock’s name that pops up on his screen, which is unusual in itself because Sherlock never calls, not if he can help it. Lestrade muses for a moment about what fresh hell the detective might be bringing him this time, braces himself, and then answers the call.
“There’s been another suicide. A child, this time, or teenager.”
“Bloody hell,” Lestrade groans into the phone. “How could you possibly have known that?”
“You’re agitated, a sign that the victim is younger than eighteen, yet you haven’t called me, so I must assume that the case was one you could wrap up in the course of a day. Suicide, then. Only it’s not a suicide and you’re an idiot.”
“Thanks,” Lestrade mutters, not bothering to ask how, from hello, Sherlock could have guessed that he was agitated. “I’m going to hang up now. Don’t come ‘round tonight, yeah?”
He rings off, but can’t help feeling a bit of hope that his flat won’t actually be empty when he gets home that night. He’s not sure he wants to be alone, just now.
He quickly forgets about the private wish, though, what with one thing and another. When he does arrive home - finally, finally - at his usual indecent hour, he finds that Sherlock is already there.
Lestrade can’t even muster the strength to be pleased.
The suicide today had been the second victim in a month, and one much younger than the first. It hadn’t taken them long to process the scene, as the drug had clearly been self-administered. It was always hard, though, dealing with the young. It was harder still when they died by their own hands; when they left behind disbelieving parents and questions that no one could provide the answers to. Lestrade had sat with the mother for close to an hour today, explaining over and over the evidence and their conclusions. She had kept insisting that there was no way it could have been suicide, and Lestrade couldn’t provide anything new for her. He had had no answers, even though he had facts and numbers and reports. He could tell her the how, just not the why. And that was the cruelest part of it all.
He can feel the years weighing down on him as his exhaustion reaches a new high, and he knows his eyes are tired and bloodshot and that his face has taken on an ashen color, as it’s wont to do after a certain hour. He’d left the Yard with a headache from the stress of it all, and hated himself for it. How could he even complain about such a small pain, when she had just lost her only child?
Lestrade rakes a hand through his - too short, too gray - hair and leans heavily against the closed door.
“Jesus.”
It’s only a few steps from the door to the nearest chair. It looks like a mile.
“Tell me about the case,” Sherlock says, glancing up from the book in his hands. Research, no doubt, going by the crease between his eyebrows and the smudge of ink on his fingers that indicates he’s been writing.
“There’s nothing to tell,” Lestrade says, catching Sherlock’s hopeful expression and not liking it one bit. “Open and shut. Not anything worth your time; sorry.”
“Hmm,” Sherlock says. He tosses the book aside and sprawls on the sofa, closing his eyes. “Second one in several weeks. Bit unusual, I’d say.”
“These things happen,” Lestrade says curtly. “I know you’re bored, Sherlock, but you can’t just go looking for something that isn’t there.”
“I’m moving,” Sherlock says in reply, and Lestrade has gotten so used to the non-sequiturs that he doesn't even blink.
“Oh?” He gives in finally and bends to take off his shoes. God, he’s tired. He could fall asleep right now, half-stooped over, and it takes all of his energy just to keep his eyes from slipping closed.
“Mm. Yes.”
“Ah, right, good. That’s - good. Very good.” Lestrade pulls off his shoes and tosses them in the general direction of the corner. Sherlock opens his eyes and turns his head to look at him.
“You should rest,” he says finally, and then returns his attention to the insides of his eyelids. “It’s never a good sign when you use the same word three times.”
Lestrade collapses into a chair and rests his head in his hands, considering for a moment falling asleep right there. He weighs the pros and cons - exhaustion versus the inevitable backache - and decides that he doesn’t well give a damn. But then there’s a pressure on his shoulder and when had Sherlock crossed the room to him? He hadn’t even heard the man move.
“Greg,” Sherlock says again, withdrawing his hand. Lestrade nods and gets to his feet. He sways, but then regains his balance.
“Join me?” he asks, but Sherlock shakes his head.
“I’ve an experiment running in the kitchen. Best not to leave it unattended for long.”
“Right. Well. Just make sure you leave everything relatively intact. I’d rather not have to buy a new stove. Again.” Lestrade brushes his knuckles against the underside of Sherlock’s chin. The scar is still there, from all those years ago - it feels like an eternity, some days, and others…well, other days it feels like no time at all has passed. And it’s strangely reassuring, that scar. It serves as a reminder that Sherlock is human - he has flaws, same as the rest of them. It serves as a reminder that Sherlock is here and now and he’s cheated death once and surely, he’ll keep on doing so. Until the end of time, at least.
And that’s where the scar sobers him, because it means that Sherlock is human and will die and isn’t immune to the harsh realities of life. Lestrade wishes that he could protect him; the scar reminds him daily that it simply isn’t possible. It never has been, and it never will be. But he’d do anything to preserve the image that his mind has constructed - Sherlock as invincible, Sherlock as unbeatable. Sherlock as more than a man.
He wonders if that conviction should frighten him. He knows that it doesn’t.
“All right?” Sherlock asks, a crease growing between his brows, and Lestrade answers with, “Yes,” even though it’s a lie and a poor one at that. He doesn’t know which of them moves first, but a moment later his arms are around Sherlock’s waist and their foreheads are pressed together. Sherlock’s elbows are tucked close to his body and his hands rest lightly on Lestrade’s chest, thumbs pressing into the hollow of his throat. Lestrade swallows hard and closes his eyes; he knows that Sherlock has kept his open.
“God, Sherlock,” he whispers. “He was seventeen.”
He expects Sherlock to say Yes, I know or Why is that significant? or even You’ve had victims far younger than that, Lestrade; why should this be any different?
But Sherlock says nothing. He simply stands there and breathes; one of his thumbs brushes lightly across the fabric of Lestrade’s shirt.
“‘m being an idiot,” Lestrade mutters finally, unnerved by the silence.
“Do you know me to be the type of man to waste my time on an idiot?” Sherlock’s lips brush across his eyelids, the touch barely more than a breath of air, and just like that the moment ends.
“See you in the morning?” Lestrade asks in a rough voice as they pull apart.
“Most likely,” Sherlock answers, already heading for the kitchen, refocusing his attention on the task at hand.
Lestrade is still awake a quarter of an hour later when there’s a familiar dip in the bed and a lithe body slips in behind him, settling under the blankets. An arm snakes itself around his waist and the cold tip of a nose presses against the base of his neck, warm air fluttering across the short hair there as Sherlock breathes.
“Experiment?” Lestrade asks.
“It can wait.”
Lestrade is too tired to be surprised, so he settles somewhere between bemused and grateful before the deep voice orders him to sleep and, calmed by Sherlock’s presence, he finally slips off.
----
Lestrade wakes at an odd hour, and the shift into consciousness is so seamless that he wonders whether he had actually fallen asleep at all. He notices first the sound of a car starting on the street below his window, and second that Sherlock’s head is tucked snugly beneath his chin.
It takes a muddled moment before he realizes that he’s hard as well.
Fuck.
Lestrade carefully and painstakingly extracts himself from the - warm, sweaty - body that’s wound around his own and rolls over onto his stomach, away from Sherlock. He does this without thinking and remembers instantly what a terrible idea it is as the friction of the mattress rubs up against him and he bucks involuntarily, stifling a groan in the pillow.
Shit.
He tries to remedy the situation by rolling onto his side, with his back to Sherlock, and as quickly as though he’d been burned. He holds his breath for several long seconds, listening to the breathing of the man next to him, hoping against hope that he hadn’t been woken. When he’s sure that Sherlock hasn’t moved, Lestrade lets out a slow breath and balls his hands into fists, one on the mattress and the other shoved under his pillow, trying to keep them off himself. He tries to think of something else - a lake he’d seen in a magazine somewhere; rain showers; snow - but it becomes clear very quickly that imagination has little power over his very real need. Lestrade then debates the merits of getting out of bed to take care of it, but the bathroom is close and the walls are thin - he can be quiet, but this is Sherlock.
Not that it really matters, he supposes. It’s hardly an act that’s unheard of, and Sherlock would probably just be faintly amused.
Or find it scientifically interesting.
Oh, God.
A warm hand finds its way to his upper arm, landing on flesh rather than the fabric of his cotton tee, and Lestrade groans at the contact, tugging his arm quickly away.
“Greg?”
The voice is low and roughened at the edges with sleep.
“Sorry,” he whispers, turning so he’s half on his back and looking in Sherlock’s general direction. “Got a bit warm.”
There is a moment of silence - of deductive silence - and then Sherlock’s hand returns, resting lightly on his arm, thumb brushing for a moment across his skin. When Lestrade doesn’t pull away, it moves to his stomach - almost hesitant in its starts and sputters as the fingers brush uncertainly across the fabric and then go still, exploring new territory. But then the hand slips under the shirt to rest flat against the flushed skin of his stomach, and Lestrade grabs it and tugs it away.
“What are you doing?” he whispers hoarsely.
“Helping,” Sherlock replies, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Well. Under other circumstances, it might well be.
“Just - just leave it alone, all right? I’ll - handle it.”
“By pretending it’s not happening?”
“Sherlock,” Lestrade says through gritted teeth as the hand in his grip tries to free itself. “Seriously, just - stop.”
“Lestrade,” the infernal man says, and, shit, he’s moving closer. Lestrade can feel the heat radiating off of him, and bites his bottom lip. “You haven’t had sex in -“
“Yes, I know, thank you!“
“ - and this will allow you to sleep. Plus, you find it pleasurable.”
“That’s really not a good enough reason for - well, for a lot of things, actually, but -“
“I want to,” Sherlock interrupts, and Lestrade twists his head around to look at him in surprise. He can feel the man smile in the dark. “Well - in a sense. I want to help.”
“That’s kind, Sherlock, but you don’t enjoy it. Wouldn’t enjoy it. And the last thing I need -“ Lestrade winces and shifts again, “ - is to make you uncomfortable.”
He releases Sherlock’s hand, though, and after a moment of hesitation the arm wraps itself around his stomach and Sherlock pulls himself closer, pressing up against Lestrade’s back.
“Lestrade,” he says as his hand slips beneath Lestrade’s waistband and wraps firmly around him, “shut up.”
Sherlock leaves him to clean himself up after, and when Lestrade returns to bed he presses a kiss to the sleep-mussed hair at Sherlock’s temple.
“Are you -“ he starts, but is cut off.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Lestrade, I am fine,” Sherlock huffs. “How can I possibly begrudge you having a sex drive simply because I lack one?”
He burrows down into the blankets once more - and it’s always astounded Lestrade that the man can actually burrow - and mutters, “I still don’t want to sleep with you.”
Lestrade feels a sudden warmth spread through the depths of his chest that has nothing to do with the act that just transpired and everything to do with the man lying next to him. He pulls closer, draping an arm across the slim stomach and resting his head against the bony shoulder as Sherlock lifts his arm in invitation. He allows it to drape across Lestrade’s back once he is settled, and the warm fingers stroke his shoulder, soothing.
They won’t make promises about this, either, or deals, or even probably come to speak of it in anything more than passing. It might happen, now and again; it might not. They don’t owe one another anything other than to exist as they are, and Lestrade is struck by what he decided all that time ago: the labels are worthless, and so long as Sherlock is Sherlock - the rest doesn’t really matter.
His body is quiet, now, and the hollow of Sherlock’s cheek is pressed to the top of his head. With the detective’s breathing filling his ears, he finds sleep once again.
----
Time passes.
Sherlock turns thirty while Lestrade closes in on fifty. The detective loses the flesh of youth from his face; his features are now all angles and sharp lines. Lestrade, in contrast, gains more of his back. Puffiness returns around his eyes and cheekbones; the lines deepen further under his eyes and around his mouth. Sherlock’s hair grows out, all dark and wild curls; it isn’t long before Lestrade starts to resemble his father.
The season wears on.
----
Lestrade turns forty-eight on a blustery day in late January. He doesn't even realize the date until the stroke of midnight marks the start of the next day; marks the second day of his forty-ninth year.
Bloody hell.
He goes up to the roof of NSY for a cigarette, feeling that it’s somehow fitting that he passed the day with the only thing that has commanded his heart for the majority of his adult life.
But that’s not quite right, not anymore, and he wonders idly what his life has become in these past five years, because the first thought that comes to his mind in the mornings and the last one in the evenings is no longer the work. Not even remotely close.
“Bad habit.”
It doesn’t surprise him, the shockingly-low voice, even though he hasn’t heard it for some weeks. He’s been busy dealing with the serial suicides - the third one had occurred near the beginning of the month - and Sherlock’s been occupied with clients of his own. Lestrade doesn’t often inquire about these cases; has learned that he is better off ignorant. He’s seen the marks they leave - a black eye back in November; cracked ribs in December; a concussion on New Year’s Eve, which had led to a fight of epic proportions and resulted in this long silence. They had needed the space, both of them having said things that they probably shouldn’t have. Lestrade has a temper that can rival Sherlock’s, but he usually keeps himself in check in ways the detective never could - or never would bother to, at any rate.
“I seem to have acquired a few of those over the years,” he replies as Sherlock joins him, leaning on the railing as he stares out over the buildings below. He stubs out his cigarette and rests his forearms on the railing. “Hello.”
“Cigarettes.”
“What?”
Sherlock nods to where the stub of the cigarette had fallen. “You’re so busy concerning yourself with things you can’t change that you overlook the one thing you can. Cigarettes. Smoking. It ages you quickly, in addition to impairing your health. Surely you know that.”
Lestrade snorts. “Since when did you add doctor to your growing list of amateur specialties?”
“Since I decided that I’m not quite ready to break in a new DI,” Sherlock says dryly. “I’ve grown fond of the one that I have.”
Lestrade feels the corner of his mouth tug upwards. “And me of my consulting detective. Have I been forgiven, then?”
“Only if I have been as well.”
They lapse into silence, and Lestrade’s gaze drifts to his folded hands. The years have thickened them; the job, made them rough. They’ve finally lost the look of youth they held onto long after Lestrade stopped thinking of himself as such; most days now they’re cracked and calloused and taking on a knobby look as the veins in his hands start to push at the thin covering of his skin.
“When did this happen?” he wonders aloud.
“About the same time your hair turned, I expect,” Sherlock says absently. He picks Lestrade’s pocket for a cigarette and produces a lighter from his own.
Lestrade snorts. His hair; a continuing source of angst. He can feel Sherlock looking at him now; between draws on the cigarette, and he knows he’s being scrutinized and catalogued. It’s an unnerving feeling.
“Your hair was dark when we first met,” the detective says finally, almost wonderingly, as though the years had escaped him as much as they escaped Lestrade.
“I was five years younger when we first met,” Lestrade points out, running a nervous hand through it. “It’s your fault, you know. Didn’t start going gray ‘til I’d met you.”
“Hmmph. I’m sure. And don’t you dare,” Sherlock says in exasperation as Lestrade’s thoughts turned - as they did now and again before he dismissed them as inane - to the prospect of hair dye. He places the cigarette between his lips and reaches out to run a quick hand through Lestrade’s hair. “Leave it. Looks distinguished.”
“Isn’t that just another word for old?” Lestrade says with a sly smile. Sherlock rolls his eyes.
“I like it,” he admits, and runs another hand through for good measure. Lestrade can feel it sticking up in all directions, and is reasonably sure that it looks ridiculous.
“Right, then. Duly noted.”
“You think that I care.” Sherlock takes another draw on the cigarette while Lestrade says nothing. “You still think I care you’re growing older. But the only thing that’s ever mattered to me is your mind; surely you know that by now.”
“My mind,” Lestrade repeats with a laugh, because when has Sherlock ever given any indication that he appreciates the thoughts that come out of Lestrade’s mouth - or the ones he reads before Lestrade has a chance to say anything? Sherlock’s a genius and he is not, and that’s just fine - he wouldn’t have it any other way. But then Sherlock reaches out and taps Lestrade's temple with cold fingers.
“The only thing of importance to me is this,” he says shortly. “So long as you are you, the rest doesn’t matter. Understand? I don’t care about your gender or your age or even, frankly, if you sprouted a third arm. I was drawn in by your mind.”
He takes another pull on the cigarette and then adds, in a low voice, “It’s you, Greg. It’s always been you.”
Lestrade swallows. “And when that starts to go?”
“It won’t,” Sherlock insists firmly.
“I’m a good deal older than you, Sherlock. It’s not an unreasonable assumption.”
“It might not happen at all,” Sherlock points out.
“Sherlock -”
“It’s not like you to speculate,” Sherlock snaps harshly, and then continues after a moment in a slightly calmer voice. “If that happens - I don’t care. I’ll stay, because it’s you. How could I not?”
Lestrade doesn’t trust his voice for several moments, and even after he’s swallowed several times he’s not sure he can continue with the conversation, and so he says instead, “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“The suicides,” Sherlock tells him. “They aren’t suicides; not proper ones, at least.”
“Hmm,” Lestrade says noncommittally. “How did you do that, by the way? The trick with the phones.”
“They’re murders,” Sherlock persists.
Lestrade ducks his head for a moment, and then looks back up. “Well, they’re linked, at any rate. Dunno how, just yet, but we’re working on it.”
He closes his eyes for a moment, recalling the disastrous press conference. He’s not terribly fond of public speaking, but he usually manages to muddle through all right; he can hold his own, especially with reporters.
Except for yesterday. Yesterday was different. Everything about this case is different, even given all he’s seen over the years.
“You need me,” Sherlock is saying when he finally comes back to himself, and isn’t that the refrain to Lestrade’s life.
Lestrade shakes his head. “Not for this.”
“Why - ?”
“You know damn well why!” It comes out harsher than he’d intended, and he takes a moment to rein himself in. “Because you’re going to go off and do something idiotic. Might even get yourself killed. I’m not dealing with that right now.”
He doesn’t add that suicides really aren’t Sherlock’s area. He’s not good with victims, as evidenced multiple times in the past; he’s not good with their loved ones, and he’s not particularly comfortable with that realm of the human psyche. That’s an area that can’t be tested and re-tested and hypothesized and deduced - sometimes humans act in inexplicable ways. Sherlock deals in facts - he doesn’t care for motivation (or lack thereof).
He’s been after these cases from the first, thinking them murders, and Lestrade can’t help but feel that he’s correct.
But there’s something in particular about these murders - suicides - that leaves a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach . It’s crafty, whatever (or whoever) it is, and Sherlock loves crafty.
He’s been afraid for his friend before, but not like this.
This is new.
And Sherlock thrives off what is new; what is unexpected.
“I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you unnerved, Lestrade,” Sherlock says with a disdainful sniff, breaking Lestrade from his thoughts.
“And I’m not sure I’ve ever seen serial suicides before,” Lestrade says with a snort. “I think I’ve earned the right to be unnerved.”
“There will be another,” Sherlock warns. “You’ll come for me.”
“Well, we’ll see who’s right about this one,” is all Lestrade can think to say, and then decides that he’d much rather talk about something else. He’s been living with these suicides for weeks, now. They haunt him, even in his off-duty hours, and he’s not going to waste time with Sherlock talking about them. “Didn’t you tell me a while back that you were moving?”
“Hm. Yes. Martha Hudson’s been looking for a tenant. It’s a flat on Baker Street."
Lestrade recalls the area, and gives a brief nod of approval. Much better than Montague Street, at any rate.
“I take it you found a flatmate?”
“Perhaps,” Sherlock says with a shrug. “We’re going to look at it tomorrow. Name’s John Watson - a doctor home from Afghanistan.”
Lestrade tries to picture Sherlock living with a soldier, and fails miserably. Sherlock allows himself a small smirk while the other man chuckles, and then suddenly says, “No, don’t even think about it.”
“Think about what?”
“You’re trying to figure out how many John Watsons there could possibly be in London, and whether you have enough time to run a background check on them all before tomorrow.”
“Is that so terrible?”
“You always want to be the one to save people, Lestrade.” Sherlock shakes his head in disbelief, and draws on the cigarette. He says nothing for a very long time, so long that Lestrade thinks the topic has been dropped.
“Hamish.”
“What?”
“Hamish.” Sherlock glances at him. “Middle name. Can’t be too many of those in London, I gather.”
“No,” Lestrade says around a smile. “No, I don’t suppose there can be. He a good fellow?”
Sherlock shrugs. “Too soon to tell.”
“Bollocks. You read people in about half a second. Did you pull the whole deduction thing out before he’d even had a chance to introduce himself?” His question is answered by Sherlock’s silence, and he gives a bark of a laugh. “Show-off.”
“He agreed to come anyhow,” Sherlock points out.
“Yeah, I suppose he did.” Lestrade nods. “Must be quite the fellow, to not be scared off by your -”
“By my what, exactly?"
Lestrade smirks. “Intensity.”
“Good save,” Sherlock mutters, but Lestrade can tell that he’s amused. “You weren’t.”
“Ah, but there’s a good reason for that.”
“You’re mental?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re going to run the check anyway.”
“Without a doubt.”
Sherlock snorts and brings the cigarette to his mouth again. He turns so that his back is to the building across from them and leans, propping his elbows on the railing behind him.
“What will you tell him?” Lestrade asks suddenly. “About - well.”
He waves a hand vaguely; Sherlock shrugs, eyes fixed on the sky - too bright, with the city lights, to spot a single star.
“What is there that needs to be said? You are you and I am I.” He draws on the cigarette, and adds, “He’ll figure it out, if he’s clever enough, and if he doesn't - well, what does it matter? We'll just go on. Same as always.”
Sherlock turns his head and stares hard at him for a moment, and what Lestrade wouldn’t give to have a look inside that mind. Sherlock must have seen inside his, though, because his expression shifts, as though he’s hit upon the answer to something.
“Here,” he says suddenly, putting the cigarette in his mouth to hold it. He reaches for his hair and flattens it along the part; Lestrade frowns at him.
“What?”
“Look.” Sherlock taps his hairline with one of his fingers. “Just there.”
Lestrade frowns but leans in anyway. And then he laughs.
“A gray hair,” he says in wonder, reaching out to touch the offender.
“A gray hair,” Sherlock agrees, returning to his cigarette and allowing Lestrade to run a quick hand across his head.
“Suits you,” Lestrade says finally, running the back of his finger down Sherlock’s cheek. The detective offers a smile.
“Not so well as it does you.” Sherlock tosses the cigarette on the ground and stamps it out with the heel of his shoe. He presses a kiss to the corner of Lestrade’s mouth, smelling of smoke and chemicals and fresh soap.
“I don’t care that you’re aging, Lestrade,” he says in a low voice as he draws away. “I care that I can’t do it with you.”
He straightens and readjusts his scarf, preparing to leave, but then something gives him pause. He turns back to Lestrade and slips a hand around the back of his neck, drawing him in and pressing their lips together.
“What was that for?” Lestrade whispers when he draws away.
“You appeared to need it,” Sherlock answers.
“Oh,” Lestrade says. “Did I?”
Sherlock smirks and shakes his head. “Oh, so did I, you daft man. Did you ever doubt it?”
He doesn’t wait around for an answer; Lestrade doesn’t give one.
“Greg,” he says suddenly when he’s halfway to the door.
“Yeah?” Lestrade says in a much steadier voice than he was expecting, glancing over his shoulder at the regal figure.
“You know where to find me.”
Lestrade gives a brisk nod and a slow smile. “Always, Sherlock."
----
End
----
Next Story: "Acts of Madmen"
Thank you all, again, for reading and commenting. It's meant the world to me.
----
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, DI Lestrade
Pairing: Lestrade/OCs (mentioned); Lestrade/Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don’t own them
Word Count: c. 6,200 (this part); c. 37,000 total
Warnings: Language; Age Discrepancy; Mild Sexuality; Drug Use
Spoilers: None
Betas: sidneysussex, gentlest_sin, archea2
Summary: Greg Lestrade is forty-three when he saves the life of a brilliant drug-addict. Two years later, he's starting to realize there are some certainties to his life now that Sherlock Holmes is part of it. He's going gray quickly, for one thing. He starts finding experiments in his kitchen. And he may even be, inexplicably, beginning to care for the detective. A series of vignettes that cover the five years leading up to “A Study In Pink.”
Prologue (with full Author’s Notes)
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Notes Part Six: In ASiP, Mycroft appears to refer to “Mummy” in the past tense, so we’re going to pretend that there’s a reason for that. One line of dialogue was blatantly inspired by an episode of Doctor Who. For those of you who may have been wondering about the mild sexuality warning attached to this fic, this is where it comes into play.
With this final installment, we are now up to the eve of “A Study in Pink,” and this is where I leave you. Thank you all of your kind comments throughout this posting process and, as ever, feedback is always appreciated and welcome.
----
Sherlock’s mother dies on a Saturday in September - crisp and clear; the air heavy with the scent of turning leaves. Lestrade doesn’t hear of it until the beginning of the next week, when they have to call the detective out for a triple homicide on a bus.
“I will have the results to you by Wednesday,” Sherlock tells him when he’s finished examining the bodies and has determined what experiments he’ll need to run in order to check an alibi.
“Tomorrow would be best, Sherlock,” Lestrade tells him calmly as he’s scribbling in his notebook, knowing full well that Sherlock sometimes overestimates how long it’ll take him to conclude an experiment so that it looks impressive when he gets the results to Lestrade early.
“That may well be, Lestrade,” Sherlock says, snapping off his gloves, “but as my mother’s funeral is tomorrow, I regret that I won’t be able to indulge you. Wednesday will have to do.”
He sweeps from the scene then, leaving a dumbfounded Lestrade in his wake.
Sherlock isn’t heard from again for days - and Lestrade’s tried - but on Saturday morning he gets an abrupt text at an obscene hour from the man.
Montague Street, at your convenience.
There is a pause while he considers his answer, but in that amount of time Sherlock sends off another text:
By which I mean, now.
He’s at Sherlock’s flat within twenty minutes, and finds it in a state of carefully-controlled chaos. There are boxes stacked chest-high in the living area, boxes in the doorway, and boxes sitting out in the hallway because there isn’t enough room in the flat for them. Sherlock is standing by the window when Lestrade enters, squeezing past the partially-obstructed doorway that serves to remind him that he needs to start keeping a closer eye on his waistline.
“What’s all this?” Lestrade asks.
“Boxes,” Sherlock replies irritably, “of my mother’s things. Mycroft was ever so kind to drop them off while I was out. He thought I might like to sort through them.”
“You don’t?”
“I have better things to do with my time, Lestrade. However, it appears they contain a number of books which could prove useful in the future, so it’s not all a complete loss.”
“So...you want some help sorting through all of this?”
“It would make the process go faster if you were to help,” Sherlock says, glancing up only briefly from the box of books that was currently commanding his attention. Lestrade clears his throat as Sherlock’s gaze falls away from him, and puts his hands in his pockets because he doesn’t know what else to do with them.
“Look, Sherlock, I never said -” he starts.
“Don’t,” Sherlock says sharply, cutting him off. “I don’t require sympathy.”
Lestrade clears his throat again and shifts, watching the detective. He looks the same as ever - even sounds the same. His voice doesn’t waver and hasn’t taken on the tone of tight control that he adopts when particularly agitated. He seems unaffected by it all, or at least seems to have completely accepted the death. Lestrade wouldn’t believe anyone else who said they were fine after losing a loved one, but he’s inclined to believe Sherlock - for the moment.
“Death is as natural as breathing,” Sherlock says, flipping open a book as he talks. “And as boring. So please stop obsessing about whether I’m telling the truth and get on with helping me.”
“All right,” Lestrade says, rolling up his sleeves past his elbows. “Tell me what you need.”
Sherlock nods once; sharp.
“I only intend to keep the books, and only a few of them at that. However, these boxes are highly disorganized. I need you to pull everything that isn’t a book,” he snags an empty cardboard box and throws it at Lestrade, “and toss it in here to be disposed of later.”
Lestrade opens the box nearest to him and glances inside. It’s filled with tiny figurines, mostly porcelain cats and turtles.
“Knickknacks?” he says.
“Irrelevant. Toss them, Lestrade,” Sherlock orders. “Everything.”
“Right,” Lestrade says, and sets the box behind him.
Lestrade opens another, and comes across mostly books. They are obscure and ancient titles, from the looks of the spines, and he hands the box off to Sherlock. The rest of the morning passes in this manner, and it takes several hours for them to complete the sorting of the books. Sherlock will stop every so often and show him something in one - an illustration of Nelumbo lutea; a passage in Old High German; a tome on beekeeping. Sherlock gifts him a book on galaxies, which Lestrade protests until Sherlock fixes him with an earnest look and a low, “I want you to have it.”
He’s never been able to say no to Sherlock for very long.
They come across more personal items mixed in with the books, and each time Sherlock orders them binned. Lestrade obliges and sets them aside, with every intention of getting all of the doomed items into Mycroft’s hands. He has the feeling that the elder Holmes is a tad more sentimental than his brother.
Lestrade opens the final box while Sherlock is organizing his bookcase (by subject first, followed by author and title).
It’s filled with photographs.
Sherlock notices Lestrade’s sudden stillness and walks over to him. He peers inside the box and sniffs when he sees the contents.
“You would find this interesting,” he says disdainfully.
“Is this you?” Lestrade says, pulling out a photograph of a young man that happens to be lying on the top of the pile.
“You can see very well that it is,” Sherlock points out, and that’s true enough. It’s Sherlock before he met Lestrade, but not much before - he’s clearly university-age and is sitting with his head buried in a book, unaware of the camera’s presence. Lestrade asks because he hopes it will elicit some explanation, but of course none comes.
“Toss them when you’re through being amazed that I was actually younger than twenty-five once, Lestrade,” Sherlock tells him, returning to his books.
Lestrade does as he’s told, but secrets away the picture of Sherlock and slips it into his book. If Sherlock notices - and he’s sure that Sherlock does - he doesn’t say anything.
And when the picture appears on his desk at work some weeks later - well, Sherlock doesn’t say anything then, either.
----
Sherlock starts to take an unusual interest in Lestrade’s hair. He notices the detective staring at it one day, even though they’re investigating a body discovered on the shore of the Thames and Sherlock has always found water-logged bodies fascinating. It happens again a few days later, when he’s sitting in on an interview with a witness (highly unusual and generally frowned upon, but Lestrade’s not the only one anymore who makes exceptions for Sherlock). His eyes keep traveling back to Lestrade’s head, which is highly distracting for the Detective Inspector. He knows he’s gone gray, and fast, and doesn’t particularly enjoy being reminded of it.
“What, Sherlock?” he demands finally one day at the Yard, as Sherlock is trying to tell him how a suspect’s alibi is full of holes. His words are distant, though, and lack their usual punch as he’s delivering his information. And, of course, Sherlock’s line of sight keeps landing somewhere north of Lestrade’s eyes. “What could you possibly find so interesting up there?”
“Nothing,” Sherlock says, “it’s just - do you realize that it does that?”
“Does what?”
“It’s -” Sherlock reaches up and touches it lightly with his fingertips. Lestrade can feel it sticking up - he’s run a nervous hand through it more than once today, and it generally defies his quiet wishes anyway. “It just sort of - is everywhere.”
“Yeah, I know,” Lestrade mutters, and it’s a habit now, running his fingers through the mass of gray. He does it now, dislodging Sherlock’s hand. “I’ve never really had any control over it, and since I cut it shorter...”
“It’s distracting,” Sherlock concludes. Lestrade snorts and steers them back to talk of the case.
“My hair is distracting,” he says later, still in slight disbelief. He’s lying on the sofa with his head in Sherlock’s lap, recovering from a mild headache while Sherlock brushes his fingers across the top of his head.
“Anything that contradicts the laws of gravity like that is something that I find quite distracting,” Sherlock says, nodding in agreement, “and I believe your hair falls under that category. Now sit still - I’m in the process of investigating it.”
Well, Lestrade muses, who was he to impede scientific progress?
----
He’s alone in his office one night when his mobile rings, and for a split-second he considers not answering - calls after midnight are rare, and usually Not Good. But it’s Sherlock’s name that pops up on his screen, which is unusual in itself because Sherlock never calls, not if he can help it. Lestrade muses for a moment about what fresh hell the detective might be bringing him this time, braces himself, and then answers the call.
“There’s been another suicide. A child, this time, or teenager.”
“Bloody hell,” Lestrade groans into the phone. “How could you possibly have known that?”
“You’re agitated, a sign that the victim is younger than eighteen, yet you haven’t called me, so I must assume that the case was one you could wrap up in the course of a day. Suicide, then. Only it’s not a suicide and you’re an idiot.”
“Thanks,” Lestrade mutters, not bothering to ask how, from hello, Sherlock could have guessed that he was agitated. “I’m going to hang up now. Don’t come ‘round tonight, yeah?”
He rings off, but can’t help feeling a bit of hope that his flat won’t actually be empty when he gets home that night. He’s not sure he wants to be alone, just now.
He quickly forgets about the private wish, though, what with one thing and another. When he does arrive home - finally, finally - at his usual indecent hour, he finds that Sherlock is already there.
Lestrade can’t even muster the strength to be pleased.
The suicide today had been the second victim in a month, and one much younger than the first. It hadn’t taken them long to process the scene, as the drug had clearly been self-administered. It was always hard, though, dealing with the young. It was harder still when they died by their own hands; when they left behind disbelieving parents and questions that no one could provide the answers to. Lestrade had sat with the mother for close to an hour today, explaining over and over the evidence and their conclusions. She had kept insisting that there was no way it could have been suicide, and Lestrade couldn’t provide anything new for her. He had had no answers, even though he had facts and numbers and reports. He could tell her the how, just not the why. And that was the cruelest part of it all.
He can feel the years weighing down on him as his exhaustion reaches a new high, and he knows his eyes are tired and bloodshot and that his face has taken on an ashen color, as it’s wont to do after a certain hour. He’d left the Yard with a headache from the stress of it all, and hated himself for it. How could he even complain about such a small pain, when she had just lost her only child?
Lestrade rakes a hand through his - too short, too gray - hair and leans heavily against the closed door.
“Jesus.”
It’s only a few steps from the door to the nearest chair. It looks like a mile.
“Tell me about the case,” Sherlock says, glancing up from the book in his hands. Research, no doubt, going by the crease between his eyebrows and the smudge of ink on his fingers that indicates he’s been writing.
“There’s nothing to tell,” Lestrade says, catching Sherlock’s hopeful expression and not liking it one bit. “Open and shut. Not anything worth your time; sorry.”
“Hmm,” Sherlock says. He tosses the book aside and sprawls on the sofa, closing his eyes. “Second one in several weeks. Bit unusual, I’d say.”
“These things happen,” Lestrade says curtly. “I know you’re bored, Sherlock, but you can’t just go looking for something that isn’t there.”
“I’m moving,” Sherlock says in reply, and Lestrade has gotten so used to the non-sequiturs that he doesn't even blink.
“Oh?” He gives in finally and bends to take off his shoes. God, he’s tired. He could fall asleep right now, half-stooped over, and it takes all of his energy just to keep his eyes from slipping closed.
“Mm. Yes.”
“Ah, right, good. That’s - good. Very good.” Lestrade pulls off his shoes and tosses them in the general direction of the corner. Sherlock opens his eyes and turns his head to look at him.
“You should rest,” he says finally, and then returns his attention to the insides of his eyelids. “It’s never a good sign when you use the same word three times.”
Lestrade collapses into a chair and rests his head in his hands, considering for a moment falling asleep right there. He weighs the pros and cons - exhaustion versus the inevitable backache - and decides that he doesn’t well give a damn. But then there’s a pressure on his shoulder and when had Sherlock crossed the room to him? He hadn’t even heard the man move.
“Greg,” Sherlock says again, withdrawing his hand. Lestrade nods and gets to his feet. He sways, but then regains his balance.
“Join me?” he asks, but Sherlock shakes his head.
“I’ve an experiment running in the kitchen. Best not to leave it unattended for long.”
“Right. Well. Just make sure you leave everything relatively intact. I’d rather not have to buy a new stove. Again.” Lestrade brushes his knuckles against the underside of Sherlock’s chin. The scar is still there, from all those years ago - it feels like an eternity, some days, and others…well, other days it feels like no time at all has passed. And it’s strangely reassuring, that scar. It serves as a reminder that Sherlock is human - he has flaws, same as the rest of them. It serves as a reminder that Sherlock is here and now and he’s cheated death once and surely, he’ll keep on doing so. Until the end of time, at least.
And that’s where the scar sobers him, because it means that Sherlock is human and will die and isn’t immune to the harsh realities of life. Lestrade wishes that he could protect him; the scar reminds him daily that it simply isn’t possible. It never has been, and it never will be. But he’d do anything to preserve the image that his mind has constructed - Sherlock as invincible, Sherlock as unbeatable. Sherlock as more than a man.
He wonders if that conviction should frighten him. He knows that it doesn’t.
“All right?” Sherlock asks, a crease growing between his brows, and Lestrade answers with, “Yes,” even though it’s a lie and a poor one at that. He doesn’t know which of them moves first, but a moment later his arms are around Sherlock’s waist and their foreheads are pressed together. Sherlock’s elbows are tucked close to his body and his hands rest lightly on Lestrade’s chest, thumbs pressing into the hollow of his throat. Lestrade swallows hard and closes his eyes; he knows that Sherlock has kept his open.
“God, Sherlock,” he whispers. “He was seventeen.”
He expects Sherlock to say Yes, I know or Why is that significant? or even You’ve had victims far younger than that, Lestrade; why should this be any different?
But Sherlock says nothing. He simply stands there and breathes; one of his thumbs brushes lightly across the fabric of Lestrade’s shirt.
“‘m being an idiot,” Lestrade mutters finally, unnerved by the silence.
“Do you know me to be the type of man to waste my time on an idiot?” Sherlock’s lips brush across his eyelids, the touch barely more than a breath of air, and just like that the moment ends.
“See you in the morning?” Lestrade asks in a rough voice as they pull apart.
“Most likely,” Sherlock answers, already heading for the kitchen, refocusing his attention on the task at hand.
Lestrade is still awake a quarter of an hour later when there’s a familiar dip in the bed and a lithe body slips in behind him, settling under the blankets. An arm snakes itself around his waist and the cold tip of a nose presses against the base of his neck, warm air fluttering across the short hair there as Sherlock breathes.
“Experiment?” Lestrade asks.
“It can wait.”
Lestrade is too tired to be surprised, so he settles somewhere between bemused and grateful before the deep voice orders him to sleep and, calmed by Sherlock’s presence, he finally slips off.
----
Lestrade wakes at an odd hour, and the shift into consciousness is so seamless that he wonders whether he had actually fallen asleep at all. He notices first the sound of a car starting on the street below his window, and second that Sherlock’s head is tucked snugly beneath his chin.
It takes a muddled moment before he realizes that he’s hard as well.
Fuck.
Lestrade carefully and painstakingly extracts himself from the - warm, sweaty - body that’s wound around his own and rolls over onto his stomach, away from Sherlock. He does this without thinking and remembers instantly what a terrible idea it is as the friction of the mattress rubs up against him and he bucks involuntarily, stifling a groan in the pillow.
Shit.
He tries to remedy the situation by rolling onto his side, with his back to Sherlock, and as quickly as though he’d been burned. He holds his breath for several long seconds, listening to the breathing of the man next to him, hoping against hope that he hadn’t been woken. When he’s sure that Sherlock hasn’t moved, Lestrade lets out a slow breath and balls his hands into fists, one on the mattress and the other shoved under his pillow, trying to keep them off himself. He tries to think of something else - a lake he’d seen in a magazine somewhere; rain showers; snow - but it becomes clear very quickly that imagination has little power over his very real need. Lestrade then debates the merits of getting out of bed to take care of it, but the bathroom is close and the walls are thin - he can be quiet, but this is Sherlock.
Not that it really matters, he supposes. It’s hardly an act that’s unheard of, and Sherlock would probably just be faintly amused.
Or find it scientifically interesting.
Oh, God.
A warm hand finds its way to his upper arm, landing on flesh rather than the fabric of his cotton tee, and Lestrade groans at the contact, tugging his arm quickly away.
“Greg?”
The voice is low and roughened at the edges with sleep.
“Sorry,” he whispers, turning so he’s half on his back and looking in Sherlock’s general direction. “Got a bit warm.”
There is a moment of silence - of deductive silence - and then Sherlock’s hand returns, resting lightly on his arm, thumb brushing for a moment across his skin. When Lestrade doesn’t pull away, it moves to his stomach - almost hesitant in its starts and sputters as the fingers brush uncertainly across the fabric and then go still, exploring new territory. But then the hand slips under the shirt to rest flat against the flushed skin of his stomach, and Lestrade grabs it and tugs it away.
“What are you doing?” he whispers hoarsely.
“Helping,” Sherlock replies, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Well. Under other circumstances, it might well be.
“Just - just leave it alone, all right? I’ll - handle it.”
“By pretending it’s not happening?”
“Sherlock,” Lestrade says through gritted teeth as the hand in his grip tries to free itself. “Seriously, just - stop.”
“Lestrade,” the infernal man says, and, shit, he’s moving closer. Lestrade can feel the heat radiating off of him, and bites his bottom lip. “You haven’t had sex in -“
“Yes, I know, thank you!“
“ - and this will allow you to sleep. Plus, you find it pleasurable.”
“That’s really not a good enough reason for - well, for a lot of things, actually, but -“
“I want to,” Sherlock interrupts, and Lestrade twists his head around to look at him in surprise. He can feel the man smile in the dark. “Well - in a sense. I want to help.”
“That’s kind, Sherlock, but you don’t enjoy it. Wouldn’t enjoy it. And the last thing I need -“ Lestrade winces and shifts again, “ - is to make you uncomfortable.”
He releases Sherlock’s hand, though, and after a moment of hesitation the arm wraps itself around his stomach and Sherlock pulls himself closer, pressing up against Lestrade’s back.
“Lestrade,” he says as his hand slips beneath Lestrade’s waistband and wraps firmly around him, “shut up.”
Sherlock leaves him to clean himself up after, and when Lestrade returns to bed he presses a kiss to the sleep-mussed hair at Sherlock’s temple.
“Are you -“ he starts, but is cut off.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Lestrade, I am fine,” Sherlock huffs. “How can I possibly begrudge you having a sex drive simply because I lack one?”
He burrows down into the blankets once more - and it’s always astounded Lestrade that the man can actually burrow - and mutters, “I still don’t want to sleep with you.”
Lestrade feels a sudden warmth spread through the depths of his chest that has nothing to do with the act that just transpired and everything to do with the man lying next to him. He pulls closer, draping an arm across the slim stomach and resting his head against the bony shoulder as Sherlock lifts his arm in invitation. He allows it to drape across Lestrade’s back once he is settled, and the warm fingers stroke his shoulder, soothing.
They won’t make promises about this, either, or deals, or even probably come to speak of it in anything more than passing. It might happen, now and again; it might not. They don’t owe one another anything other than to exist as they are, and Lestrade is struck by what he decided all that time ago: the labels are worthless, and so long as Sherlock is Sherlock - the rest doesn’t really matter.
His body is quiet, now, and the hollow of Sherlock’s cheek is pressed to the top of his head. With the detective’s breathing filling his ears, he finds sleep once again.
----
Time passes.
Sherlock turns thirty while Lestrade closes in on fifty. The detective loses the flesh of youth from his face; his features are now all angles and sharp lines. Lestrade, in contrast, gains more of his back. Puffiness returns around his eyes and cheekbones; the lines deepen further under his eyes and around his mouth. Sherlock’s hair grows out, all dark and wild curls; it isn’t long before Lestrade starts to resemble his father.
The season wears on.
----
Lestrade turns forty-eight on a blustery day in late January. He doesn't even realize the date until the stroke of midnight marks the start of the next day; marks the second day of his forty-ninth year.
Bloody hell.
He goes up to the roof of NSY for a cigarette, feeling that it’s somehow fitting that he passed the day with the only thing that has commanded his heart for the majority of his adult life.
But that’s not quite right, not anymore, and he wonders idly what his life has become in these past five years, because the first thought that comes to his mind in the mornings and the last one in the evenings is no longer the work. Not even remotely close.
“Bad habit.”
It doesn’t surprise him, the shockingly-low voice, even though he hasn’t heard it for some weeks. He’s been busy dealing with the serial suicides - the third one had occurred near the beginning of the month - and Sherlock’s been occupied with clients of his own. Lestrade doesn’t often inquire about these cases; has learned that he is better off ignorant. He’s seen the marks they leave - a black eye back in November; cracked ribs in December; a concussion on New Year’s Eve, which had led to a fight of epic proportions and resulted in this long silence. They had needed the space, both of them having said things that they probably shouldn’t have. Lestrade has a temper that can rival Sherlock’s, but he usually keeps himself in check in ways the detective never could - or never would bother to, at any rate.
“I seem to have acquired a few of those over the years,” he replies as Sherlock joins him, leaning on the railing as he stares out over the buildings below. He stubs out his cigarette and rests his forearms on the railing. “Hello.”
“Cigarettes.”
“What?”
Sherlock nods to where the stub of the cigarette had fallen. “You’re so busy concerning yourself with things you can’t change that you overlook the one thing you can. Cigarettes. Smoking. It ages you quickly, in addition to impairing your health. Surely you know that.”
Lestrade snorts. “Since when did you add doctor to your growing list of amateur specialties?”
“Since I decided that I’m not quite ready to break in a new DI,” Sherlock says dryly. “I’ve grown fond of the one that I have.”
Lestrade feels the corner of his mouth tug upwards. “And me of my consulting detective. Have I been forgiven, then?”
“Only if I have been as well.”
They lapse into silence, and Lestrade’s gaze drifts to his folded hands. The years have thickened them; the job, made them rough. They’ve finally lost the look of youth they held onto long after Lestrade stopped thinking of himself as such; most days now they’re cracked and calloused and taking on a knobby look as the veins in his hands start to push at the thin covering of his skin.
“When did this happen?” he wonders aloud.
“About the same time your hair turned, I expect,” Sherlock says absently. He picks Lestrade’s pocket for a cigarette and produces a lighter from his own.
Lestrade snorts. His hair; a continuing source of angst. He can feel Sherlock looking at him now; between draws on the cigarette, and he knows he’s being scrutinized and catalogued. It’s an unnerving feeling.
“Your hair was dark when we first met,” the detective says finally, almost wonderingly, as though the years had escaped him as much as they escaped Lestrade.
“I was five years younger when we first met,” Lestrade points out, running a nervous hand through it. “It’s your fault, you know. Didn’t start going gray ‘til I’d met you.”
“Hmmph. I’m sure. And don’t you dare,” Sherlock says in exasperation as Lestrade’s thoughts turned - as they did now and again before he dismissed them as inane - to the prospect of hair dye. He places the cigarette between his lips and reaches out to run a quick hand through Lestrade’s hair. “Leave it. Looks distinguished.”
“Isn’t that just another word for old?” Lestrade says with a sly smile. Sherlock rolls his eyes.
“I like it,” he admits, and runs another hand through for good measure. Lestrade can feel it sticking up in all directions, and is reasonably sure that it looks ridiculous.
“Right, then. Duly noted.”
“You think that I care.” Sherlock takes another draw on the cigarette while Lestrade says nothing. “You still think I care you’re growing older. But the only thing that’s ever mattered to me is your mind; surely you know that by now.”
“My mind,” Lestrade repeats with a laugh, because when has Sherlock ever given any indication that he appreciates the thoughts that come out of Lestrade’s mouth - or the ones he reads before Lestrade has a chance to say anything? Sherlock’s a genius and he is not, and that’s just fine - he wouldn’t have it any other way. But then Sherlock reaches out and taps Lestrade's temple with cold fingers.
“The only thing of importance to me is this,” he says shortly. “So long as you are you, the rest doesn’t matter. Understand? I don’t care about your gender or your age or even, frankly, if you sprouted a third arm. I was drawn in by your mind.”
He takes another pull on the cigarette and then adds, in a low voice, “It’s you, Greg. It’s always been you.”
Lestrade swallows. “And when that starts to go?”
“It won’t,” Sherlock insists firmly.
“I’m a good deal older than you, Sherlock. It’s not an unreasonable assumption.”
“It might not happen at all,” Sherlock points out.
“Sherlock -”
“It’s not like you to speculate,” Sherlock snaps harshly, and then continues after a moment in a slightly calmer voice. “If that happens - I don’t care. I’ll stay, because it’s you. How could I not?”
Lestrade doesn’t trust his voice for several moments, and even after he’s swallowed several times he’s not sure he can continue with the conversation, and so he says instead, “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“The suicides,” Sherlock tells him. “They aren’t suicides; not proper ones, at least.”
“Hmm,” Lestrade says noncommittally. “How did you do that, by the way? The trick with the phones.”
“They’re murders,” Sherlock persists.
Lestrade ducks his head for a moment, and then looks back up. “Well, they’re linked, at any rate. Dunno how, just yet, but we’re working on it.”
He closes his eyes for a moment, recalling the disastrous press conference. He’s not terribly fond of public speaking, but he usually manages to muddle through all right; he can hold his own, especially with reporters.
Except for yesterday. Yesterday was different. Everything about this case is different, even given all he’s seen over the years.
“You need me,” Sherlock is saying when he finally comes back to himself, and isn’t that the refrain to Lestrade’s life.
Lestrade shakes his head. “Not for this.”
“Why - ?”
“You know damn well why!” It comes out harsher than he’d intended, and he takes a moment to rein himself in. “Because you’re going to go off and do something idiotic. Might even get yourself killed. I’m not dealing with that right now.”
He doesn’t add that suicides really aren’t Sherlock’s area. He’s not good with victims, as evidenced multiple times in the past; he’s not good with their loved ones, and he’s not particularly comfortable with that realm of the human psyche. That’s an area that can’t be tested and re-tested and hypothesized and deduced - sometimes humans act in inexplicable ways. Sherlock deals in facts - he doesn’t care for motivation (or lack thereof).
He’s been after these cases from the first, thinking them murders, and Lestrade can’t help but feel that he’s correct.
But there’s something in particular about these murders - suicides - that leaves a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach . It’s crafty, whatever (or whoever) it is, and Sherlock loves crafty.
He’s been afraid for his friend before, but not like this.
This is new.
And Sherlock thrives off what is new; what is unexpected.
“I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you unnerved, Lestrade,” Sherlock says with a disdainful sniff, breaking Lestrade from his thoughts.
“And I’m not sure I’ve ever seen serial suicides before,” Lestrade says with a snort. “I think I’ve earned the right to be unnerved.”
“There will be another,” Sherlock warns. “You’ll come for me.”
“Well, we’ll see who’s right about this one,” is all Lestrade can think to say, and then decides that he’d much rather talk about something else. He’s been living with these suicides for weeks, now. They haunt him, even in his off-duty hours, and he’s not going to waste time with Sherlock talking about them. “Didn’t you tell me a while back that you were moving?”
“Hm. Yes. Martha Hudson’s been looking for a tenant. It’s a flat on Baker Street."
Lestrade recalls the area, and gives a brief nod of approval. Much better than Montague Street, at any rate.
“I take it you found a flatmate?”
“Perhaps,” Sherlock says with a shrug. “We’re going to look at it tomorrow. Name’s John Watson - a doctor home from Afghanistan.”
Lestrade tries to picture Sherlock living with a soldier, and fails miserably. Sherlock allows himself a small smirk while the other man chuckles, and then suddenly says, “No, don’t even think about it.”
“Think about what?”
“You’re trying to figure out how many John Watsons there could possibly be in London, and whether you have enough time to run a background check on them all before tomorrow.”
“Is that so terrible?”
“You always want to be the one to save people, Lestrade.” Sherlock shakes his head in disbelief, and draws on the cigarette. He says nothing for a very long time, so long that Lestrade thinks the topic has been dropped.
“Hamish.”
“What?”
“Hamish.” Sherlock glances at him. “Middle name. Can’t be too many of those in London, I gather.”
“No,” Lestrade says around a smile. “No, I don’t suppose there can be. He a good fellow?”
Sherlock shrugs. “Too soon to tell.”
“Bollocks. You read people in about half a second. Did you pull the whole deduction thing out before he’d even had a chance to introduce himself?” His question is answered by Sherlock’s silence, and he gives a bark of a laugh. “Show-off.”
“He agreed to come anyhow,” Sherlock points out.
“Yeah, I suppose he did.” Lestrade nods. “Must be quite the fellow, to not be scared off by your -”
“By my what, exactly?"
Lestrade smirks. “Intensity.”
“Good save,” Sherlock mutters, but Lestrade can tell that he’s amused. “You weren’t.”
“Ah, but there’s a good reason for that.”
“You’re mental?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re going to run the check anyway.”
“Without a doubt.”
Sherlock snorts and brings the cigarette to his mouth again. He turns so that his back is to the building across from them and leans, propping his elbows on the railing behind him.
“What will you tell him?” Lestrade asks suddenly. “About - well.”
He waves a hand vaguely; Sherlock shrugs, eyes fixed on the sky - too bright, with the city lights, to spot a single star.
“What is there that needs to be said? You are you and I am I.” He draws on the cigarette, and adds, “He’ll figure it out, if he’s clever enough, and if he doesn't - well, what does it matter? We'll just go on. Same as always.”
Sherlock turns his head and stares hard at him for a moment, and what Lestrade wouldn’t give to have a look inside that mind. Sherlock must have seen inside his, though, because his expression shifts, as though he’s hit upon the answer to something.
“Here,” he says suddenly, putting the cigarette in his mouth to hold it. He reaches for his hair and flattens it along the part; Lestrade frowns at him.
“What?”
“Look.” Sherlock taps his hairline with one of his fingers. “Just there.”
Lestrade frowns but leans in anyway. And then he laughs.
“A gray hair,” he says in wonder, reaching out to touch the offender.
“A gray hair,” Sherlock agrees, returning to his cigarette and allowing Lestrade to run a quick hand across his head.
“Suits you,” Lestrade says finally, running the back of his finger down Sherlock’s cheek. The detective offers a smile.
“Not so well as it does you.” Sherlock tosses the cigarette on the ground and stamps it out with the heel of his shoe. He presses a kiss to the corner of Lestrade’s mouth, smelling of smoke and chemicals and fresh soap.
“I don’t care that you’re aging, Lestrade,” he says in a low voice as he draws away. “I care that I can’t do it with you.”
He straightens and readjusts his scarf, preparing to leave, but then something gives him pause. He turns back to Lestrade and slips a hand around the back of his neck, drawing him in and pressing their lips together.
“What was that for?” Lestrade whispers when he draws away.
“You appeared to need it,” Sherlock answers.
“Oh,” Lestrade says. “Did I?”
Sherlock smirks and shakes his head. “Oh, so did I, you daft man. Did you ever doubt it?”
He doesn’t wait around for an answer; Lestrade doesn’t give one.
“Greg,” he says suddenly when he’s halfway to the door.
“Yeah?” Lestrade says in a much steadier voice than he was expecting, glancing over his shoulder at the regal figure.
“You know where to find me.”
Lestrade gives a brisk nod and a slow smile. “Always, Sherlock."
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End
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Next Story: "Acts of Madmen"
Thank you all, again, for reading and commenting. It's meant the world to me.
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