A Case Of Identity: Part Two - Deduction
Title: A Case Of Identity : Deduction (Part 2 of 5)
Pairings: Sherlock/Lestrade
Rating: 15
Wordcount: 2,956
Summary: In which coffee is drunk, a violin is played, and Sherlock spells out some uncomfortable truths.
AN: All started as a prequel to Cryptic. This part still set pre-Study in Pink. There will be more...
AN2: Borrowed the thing that's distressing Lestrade in the beginning from here.
Part One: Legwork
Part Two: Deduction
Part Three: Analysis
Part Four: Hypothesis
Part Five: Verdict
--
He'd been driving for hours. The lights of the night-time city had become a string of neon flares flashing in his eyes and he knew he should stop soon, but stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant remembering, and if he let the images of the previous afternoon back in too soon he knew he'd throw up. Again. So he kept driving, anywhere, aimlessly.
Perhaps not aimlessly. As Lestrade took a right turn at a junction, he realised he'd reached the street with Sherlock's flat. Let his eyes wander up to the window as he drove slowly past, not expecting any signs of life as it was gone 2am.
To his surprise, there was a light on, and the silhouette of a man behind the curtain. He pulled into a space, and watched, puzzled, as the figure moved from side to side, almost as if he was swaying.
Lestrade made up his mind. What the hell. At least he wouldn't be waking him up.
As he opened the car door, he became aware of faint music floating down, and saw that Sherlock's window was slightly open. He was playing the violin, he realised, studying the tall figure behind the curtain, a sinuous grace to his movements.
Lestrade watched for a moment, then shook himself. Locked the car and hurried across the road, faintly conscious of the music fading to a close as he did so.
As he reached out to the intercom button, the door buzzed loudly, and Sherlock's voice crackled from the speaker.
"Come on up, Inspector."
Rolling his eyes, Lestrade did as he was bid, climbing the stairs to the first floor to find Sherlock holding the door open for him.
"How did you know it was me?" he demanded, entering the tiny flat. "You weren’t looking out the window."
"I heard the car. Right make."
"There's got to be hundreds of the same bloody car in this city. And since when did you become a car buff anyway?"
"I know the engine noises. And yes, many, but not so many stopping opposite this house though. And everyone shuts a car door in a different way. Soon as I heard it close I knew it was you."
"Show off." Lestrade dropped into the armchair without being invited, and Sherlock grinned, throwing himself bodily onto the couch opposite.
"So to what do I owe the pleasure? Not a case, you're twitchier when you need me for something, because it annoys you to have to ask, and you'd probably have called first. Social call? Not likely given that you're not in the habit. Something else then. An opinion you want on something? Could have waited till morning, which means whatever it is it's something preventing you from sleeping, and like I say not twitchy, so a closed case not something you need solving, and you're not a man easily unsettled so it has to be something - " Sherlock paused, and finished in a quieter voice as he realised the logical outcome of his reasoning - "something rather nasty." He narrowed his eyes, considering. "Children?"
Lestrade shook his head, wearily. "Animals," he said, quietly.
"Animals?"
"Yeah." Lestrade rubbed his eyes, sank deeper into the seat. "You think you've seen everything people are capable of, and then - Christ."
"I'm assuming you haven't been seconded to the Scotland Yard branch of the RSPCA?"
"There was this guy."
"There often is."
"Are you going to let me tell this or what?"
Sherlock raised his hand in apology. "Please. Continue."
"Yeah, well. We raided his house, didn't we. After we'd locked him up, this was, mind. And found - " he pinched his eyes shut, like he could stop the pictures from coming back. "He'd been experimenting on them."
"Alive?"
"Yeah. And some of them still were. Barely. Shit, they weren't experiments, it was just torture, pure and simple." He opened his eyes again, realising that darkness only made the images sharper. "And do you know what, I found myself thinking thank God he'd moved on to people. Because if he hadn't, if those murders hadn't happened, we'd never have known. He'd still be out there, doing it. And then you think - if he's doing it, who else is? That we don't know about?"
"Pointless causing yourself unnecessary pain over a supposition." Sherlock leaned forwards. "You've got enough? To convict him?"
"Hell, yes."
"Then you've done all you can."
Lestrade sighed, and was silent for a minute. "I threw up," he confessed ruefully, almost to himself.
Sherlock half-smiled, commiseratingly.
"Has the delightful Sergeant Donovan let you forget it yet?"
Lestrade sat up and looked indignant.
"Not at the crime scene! Credit me with some balls." He groaned, remembering the sudden rush of nausea as he was driving away, how it seemed to crowd in on him, the sweating, the hurried pulling over and dashing into someone's overgrown garden. Hoped to fuck they hadn't seen him.
"Would you like some tea?" Sherlock offered, then frowned. "Although I don't think I've got any milk. Actually, I'm not entirely sure I've got any tea."
Lestrade laughed, surprising himself. "What have you got?"
"Might be some coffee?"
"I'll do it." Lestrade hauled himself out of the chair, glad for something to occupy his mind, even for a few moments. Hunted through various cupboards in the kitchenette with varying expressions of confusion, alarm and distaste at the things he found, and finally came up with a small jar of Nescafe with some granules left in the bottom, welded into a lump. He chipped off enough to make two mugs, and carried them back over.
With unaccustomed tact, Sherlock launched into a lengthy discourse on a topic unrelated to criminals, animals or public vomiting. Lestrade sipped the bitter black coffee and listened, finally feeling himself start to relax for the first time in hours.
Some time later, Sherlock looked over through critically narrowed eyes. "You looked wiped out," he commented neutrally. "Shouldn't you get some rest?"
Lestrade blinked through reddened eyes and let his head thud against the chair back. "I don't think I could. Every time I close my eyes - " he tailed off, not needing to explain.
"Hmmn." Sherlock got up, turned off the light so that only a lamp was burning. "Go and lie on the sofa," he instructed, and Lestrade was faintly annoyed to find himself obeying.
"You're not a bloody hypnotist on the quiet are you?" he grumbled, sinking into the battered cushions that seemed to have been moulded to fit Sherlock's body.
"Only when the situation calls for it," Sherlock smiled, picking up his violin. "Now hush."
He started playing, a soft, lilting melody that was barely audible. Lestrade watched him with heavy lidded eyes, following the movement of the hands, the dip and sway of the instrument, the far-away concentration on Sherlock's face. He'd heard him play before, but never like this, never anything so soft.
Without meaning to he found he'd closed his eyes, the better to hear the quiet music.
When Sherlock finally stopped playing, he found, to his satisfaction, that Lestrade was fast asleep.
--
After that night, a tacit companionship seemed to develop between them. Lestrade took to dropping round late at night whether he had a case for Sherlock or not, and they would sit and discuss all manner of things. Sherlock professed that it helped him to think aloud if there was someone to bounce ideas off, although they would frequently argue over methodology and execution.
In his more sharp-tongued moments, Sherlock would accuse him of being a typically dull copper and Lestrade would argue hotly that being an insane genius was all very well but that kind of thing didn't tend to amuse the CPS. They were frequently at loggerheads, and evenings all too often descended into shouting matches.
They both enjoyed it far too much.
When he dropped round, Lestrade always brought milk.
Sometimes he'd also bring some kind of takeaway, and sit and make Sherlock eat a share, just for the knowledge that he'd had at least something to eat that week.
On rare occasions, Sherlock would play for him, and Lestrade would sit with his eyes closed and listen, and neither of them would mention it afterwards.
Lestrade knew, with a sinking inevitability, that he was falling in love.
He wondered, sometimes, which way Sherlock was inclined, as he never mentioned any partners, or gave any clue. He tried very hard not to fantasise, for fear that Sherlock (or worse, Donovan), would somehow read it in his mind. He wasn't entirely successful.
--
"I'm sorry, but I just don't believe you."
The door to the flat banged shut behind them and Sherlock whirled round on him, all impatient hands and angrily flashing eyes.
"Just because my reasoning is apparently beyond your limited and muddleheaded grasp doesn't mean I'm making it up, Inspector any more than lightbulbs work by witchcraft or computers through telepathy."
Lestrade wasn't giving up so easily. "Look, you might have convinced that woman you could tell she was having an affair because of the dog hair on her coat but you're not bullshitting me Sherlock, you found that out some other way, and if I find you're holding out on a source - "
"Oh spare me from the tiny closed minds of the policeforce!" Sherlock threw himself onto the couch and groaned dramatically.
Lestrade sat down stiffly in the armchair, unwilling to give way on what he saw as Sherlock's usual act of smoke and mirrors, and trying not to be distracted by the long pale neck visible above Sherlock's open shirt collar, or the deft fingers fidgeting with the fraying edge of a cushion.
"Prove it," he demanded stubbornly.
"What?"
"Prove it. If you're so damn insightful, convince me. Tell me something about me that no-one could possibly have told you."
"No."
"You can't, can you?" he crowed triumphantly.
"Of course I can, you just won't like it."
"Hah!"
"Fine!" Sherlock sat up, swinging his feet onto the floor and fixing him with a focussed gaze of concentration. "You really want to know what I've divined about you Lestrade?"
"Yes." Lestrade felt a spike of unease but there was no way he was backing down now. And then suddenly Sherlock was speaking, a rapid, unrelenting babble of facts that rooted Lestrade to the spot in a cold sweat of horror.
"You're gay, or you at least have a strong bias that way. You wear a wedding ring because it stops people asking, because you don't have time for relationships, the job gets in the way, and flings are risky for a man in your position. So you try not to think about it. Are you lonely, Inspector? Yes, you must be, the long hours preclude a lasting relationship but then in themselves become a way of filling your day with human contact, and in your job enough of them are appalling that that you remember to be grateful to still be alone when you get home. But then even that's not enough, your colleagues respect you but don't especially like you, you don't socialise with them, your friends are all married with kids. And so you come here, repeatedly seek me out even though you disparage my methods, the only other man you know consistently awake in the middle of the night who won't turn you away."
Sherlock ran out of breath. There was a strained silence between them in which the tick of the clock was suddenly loud.
"Piss off."
"And you call me childish?" Sherlock sat back, fingers steepled and pressed against his lips.
Lestrade's face was a tight mask, and he got to his feet.
"I'm sorry if you've felt I was intruding all this time. I'd hate to inflict my clearly pitiful state on you. I won't come again, don't worry."
He turned to leave and Sherlock moved with a speed hitherto unsuspected, flattening his back against the door before Lestrade could reach for the handle.
"Don't be a dullard."
"Excuse me?"
"For heaven's sake, I'm only speaking the truth, is it that unfaceable? Nothing was meant as a criticism."
"Oh well that's alright then," Lestrade scowled, voice heavy with sarcasm.
Sherlock flapped his hand impatiently. "Don't be one of them Lestrade. I'd thought with you at least I could speak freely."
He moved carefully away from the door once he was confident Lestrade would no longer try and walk out.
Lestrade sighed.
"Not a people person, are you Sherlock?"
"People are ghastly. Why would I want to be?" Sherlock dropped back onto the sofa and closed his eyes.
Lestrade slowly retraced his steps, took up his seat in the armchair once more.
"You counting me in that?"
Sherlock smiled without opening his eyes. "You? Are - bearable. At least when you don't persist in taking everything I say as a calculated insult."
Lestrade pursed his lips, then gave a resigned laugh. Bearable. That was practically a declaration of undying devotion from Sherlock.
"What about you?"
"I'm quite un-bearable, I'm sure."
Lestrade laughed. "Well you'll get no argument from me on that. But I meant - "
"Oh I'm perfectly aware what you meant." Sherlock swung his feet to the floor, sitting up and looking intently at Lestrade. "But the question's irrelevant."
"Well, I'm not saying it matters, either way - " Lestrade protested, but Sherlock interrupted him.
"No, no, you misunderstand me - as usual. I'm not interested."
"I wasn't - "
"Weren't you?" Sherlock grinned and leaped to his feet. "But no, you're still not getting it are you? I'm not interested. At all."
"In sex?" Lestrade clarified, feeling as thick as Sherlock frequently accused him of being.
"In sex. Exactly."
"You have - had it, I suppose?"
Sherlock looked scathing. "Naturally. You can't have a worthwhile theory unless it's based in experiential data."
"I bet you were a fabulous date."
Sherlock looked annoyed and clammed up. After a second, Lestrade couldn't resist probing further.
"So..?"
"So? I tried it. Didn't do anything for me." Sherlock looked dismissive and started pacing round the room with long strides of pent up nervous energy.
"With a girl?"
Sherlock nodded. "I naturally assumed at first this meant I was gay. So I tried that, and that didn't do anything for me either."
"You - " Lestrade bit his lip, stifling a smile. "Just like that?"
"Well yes, I was at university, it wasn't difficult to find a partner."
Lestrade, whose own university days had been filled with a lot less sex that he would have liked, nodded solemnly.
"You don't think it might just have been - you know. Maybe they weren't very - good?"
"I gathered enough data to form a conclusive opinion."
Lestrade duly translated this into a mental image of Sherlock having sex with a string of different people and wasn't sure whether he was amused or faintly turned on. Actually, the more he thought about it, not so faintly.
Sherlock was watching him.
"You think you could convince me otherwise."
"What?" Lestrade looked up, startled.
Sherlock sighed. "That was an opinion Inspector, not an offer."
"Oh. Well, I just - you probably just haven't found the right person." Although God knows who that person would be, he thought silently.
"How very patronising."
Lestrade huffed in exasperation. "Do you want me to go?"
"What I'd like is you to stop threatening to leave every time I venture an opinion you disagree with. It's very tiring."
"So are you, stop bloody pacing!"
Sherlock dropped down onto the arm of Lestrade's chair and studied him.
"You really do think you could make me like it," he said softly.
"Well, I - " Lestrade stuttered. "I'm not claiming to be the world champion or anything."
"It's not about prowess, it's about compatibility, you're right there at least." Sherlock looked considering, then shook his head. "But still, ultimately pointless, in my case I'm afraid. Sorry."
"That's - I mean, I wasn't - I didn't - "
"You hoped."
"Yeah. Yeah, alright, maybe I did," he confessed, looking away.
Sherlock reached out, stroked the back of one finger across Lestrade's cheek. "Sorry," he breathed, again, and Lestrade felt things tighten unbearably inside as those clear, pale eyes stared down into his own.
Before he knew what he was doing he'd pulled Sherlock down into his lap and was kissing him, desperately, hands tangled in his hair, cock rapidly stiffening under the pressure of the body sprawled over his legs, his tongue in Sherlock's mouth, tasting, plundering.
Sherlock bore all this with a patient passivity that eventually filtered through to Lestrade's brain and he broke off, panting slightly. Sherlock smiled at him, apologetically, and Lestrade closed his eyes and winced.
"Shit."
"It's okay."
"No, it's not, I - sorry. I'll go."
"I thought I told you to stop doing that?"
Lestrade opened his eyes again in surprise. "You can't want me to stay, after that?"
"Why would I want to you go because of it?" Sherlock countered. "I'm flattered. Really. But then, if your ego can't cope with the fact I haven't melted into your arms - "
"Bollocks!"
" - then fair enough, I suggest you go, otherwise, I was rather enjoying your company."
Lestrade looked disbelieving.
"...really?"
"Really." Sherlock slid an arm around Lestrade's shoulders and pressed a kiss to his temple. "Promise."
Lestrade mustered the bruised fragments of his confidence and smiled up at him ruefully. Heaved a sigh.
"Get off then you big asexual poof."
Sherlock grinned in delight and slid to the floor, resuming his sprawl on the couch. "Technically that's an oxymoron."
"Well, you'd know."
The bickering once more continued well into the early hours.
--
Pairings: Sherlock/Lestrade
Rating: 15
Wordcount: 2,956
Summary: In which coffee is drunk, a violin is played, and Sherlock spells out some uncomfortable truths.
AN: All started as a prequel to Cryptic. This part still set pre-Study in Pink. There will be more...
AN2: Borrowed the thing that's distressing Lestrade in the beginning from here.
Part One: Legwork
Part Two: Deduction
Part Three: Analysis
Part Four: Hypothesis
Part Five: Verdict
--
He'd been driving for hours. The lights of the night-time city had become a string of neon flares flashing in his eyes and he knew he should stop soon, but stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant remembering, and if he let the images of the previous afternoon back in too soon he knew he'd throw up. Again. So he kept driving, anywhere, aimlessly.
Perhaps not aimlessly. As Lestrade took a right turn at a junction, he realised he'd reached the street with Sherlock's flat. Let his eyes wander up to the window as he drove slowly past, not expecting any signs of life as it was gone 2am.
To his surprise, there was a light on, and the silhouette of a man behind the curtain. He pulled into a space, and watched, puzzled, as the figure moved from side to side, almost as if he was swaying.
Lestrade made up his mind. What the hell. At least he wouldn't be waking him up.
As he opened the car door, he became aware of faint music floating down, and saw that Sherlock's window was slightly open. He was playing the violin, he realised, studying the tall figure behind the curtain, a sinuous grace to his movements.
Lestrade watched for a moment, then shook himself. Locked the car and hurried across the road, faintly conscious of the music fading to a close as he did so.
As he reached out to the intercom button, the door buzzed loudly, and Sherlock's voice crackled from the speaker.
"Come on up, Inspector."
Rolling his eyes, Lestrade did as he was bid, climbing the stairs to the first floor to find Sherlock holding the door open for him.
"How did you know it was me?" he demanded, entering the tiny flat. "You weren’t looking out the window."
"I heard the car. Right make."
"There's got to be hundreds of the same bloody car in this city. And since when did you become a car buff anyway?"
"I know the engine noises. And yes, many, but not so many stopping opposite this house though. And everyone shuts a car door in a different way. Soon as I heard it close I knew it was you."
"Show off." Lestrade dropped into the armchair without being invited, and Sherlock grinned, throwing himself bodily onto the couch opposite.
"So to what do I owe the pleasure? Not a case, you're twitchier when you need me for something, because it annoys you to have to ask, and you'd probably have called first. Social call? Not likely given that you're not in the habit. Something else then. An opinion you want on something? Could have waited till morning, which means whatever it is it's something preventing you from sleeping, and like I say not twitchy, so a closed case not something you need solving, and you're not a man easily unsettled so it has to be something - " Sherlock paused, and finished in a quieter voice as he realised the logical outcome of his reasoning - "something rather nasty." He narrowed his eyes, considering. "Children?"
Lestrade shook his head, wearily. "Animals," he said, quietly.
"Animals?"
"Yeah." Lestrade rubbed his eyes, sank deeper into the seat. "You think you've seen everything people are capable of, and then - Christ."
"I'm assuming you haven't been seconded to the Scotland Yard branch of the RSPCA?"
"There was this guy."
"There often is."
"Are you going to let me tell this or what?"
Sherlock raised his hand in apology. "Please. Continue."
"Yeah, well. We raided his house, didn't we. After we'd locked him up, this was, mind. And found - " he pinched his eyes shut, like he could stop the pictures from coming back. "He'd been experimenting on them."
"Alive?"
"Yeah. And some of them still were. Barely. Shit, they weren't experiments, it was just torture, pure and simple." He opened his eyes again, realising that darkness only made the images sharper. "And do you know what, I found myself thinking thank God he'd moved on to people. Because if he hadn't, if those murders hadn't happened, we'd never have known. He'd still be out there, doing it. And then you think - if he's doing it, who else is? That we don't know about?"
"Pointless causing yourself unnecessary pain over a supposition." Sherlock leaned forwards. "You've got enough? To convict him?"
"Hell, yes."
"Then you've done all you can."
Lestrade sighed, and was silent for a minute. "I threw up," he confessed ruefully, almost to himself.
Sherlock half-smiled, commiseratingly.
"Has the delightful Sergeant Donovan let you forget it yet?"
Lestrade sat up and looked indignant.
"Not at the crime scene! Credit me with some balls." He groaned, remembering the sudden rush of nausea as he was driving away, how it seemed to crowd in on him, the sweating, the hurried pulling over and dashing into someone's overgrown garden. Hoped to fuck they hadn't seen him.
"Would you like some tea?" Sherlock offered, then frowned. "Although I don't think I've got any milk. Actually, I'm not entirely sure I've got any tea."
Lestrade laughed, surprising himself. "What have you got?"
"Might be some coffee?"
"I'll do it." Lestrade hauled himself out of the chair, glad for something to occupy his mind, even for a few moments. Hunted through various cupboards in the kitchenette with varying expressions of confusion, alarm and distaste at the things he found, and finally came up with a small jar of Nescafe with some granules left in the bottom, welded into a lump. He chipped off enough to make two mugs, and carried them back over.
With unaccustomed tact, Sherlock launched into a lengthy discourse on a topic unrelated to criminals, animals or public vomiting. Lestrade sipped the bitter black coffee and listened, finally feeling himself start to relax for the first time in hours.
Some time later, Sherlock looked over through critically narrowed eyes. "You looked wiped out," he commented neutrally. "Shouldn't you get some rest?"
Lestrade blinked through reddened eyes and let his head thud against the chair back. "I don't think I could. Every time I close my eyes - " he tailed off, not needing to explain.
"Hmmn." Sherlock got up, turned off the light so that only a lamp was burning. "Go and lie on the sofa," he instructed, and Lestrade was faintly annoyed to find himself obeying.
"You're not a bloody hypnotist on the quiet are you?" he grumbled, sinking into the battered cushions that seemed to have been moulded to fit Sherlock's body.
"Only when the situation calls for it," Sherlock smiled, picking up his violin. "Now hush."
He started playing, a soft, lilting melody that was barely audible. Lestrade watched him with heavy lidded eyes, following the movement of the hands, the dip and sway of the instrument, the far-away concentration on Sherlock's face. He'd heard him play before, but never like this, never anything so soft.
Without meaning to he found he'd closed his eyes, the better to hear the quiet music.
When Sherlock finally stopped playing, he found, to his satisfaction, that Lestrade was fast asleep.
--
After that night, a tacit companionship seemed to develop between them. Lestrade took to dropping round late at night whether he had a case for Sherlock or not, and they would sit and discuss all manner of things. Sherlock professed that it helped him to think aloud if there was someone to bounce ideas off, although they would frequently argue over methodology and execution.
In his more sharp-tongued moments, Sherlock would accuse him of being a typically dull copper and Lestrade would argue hotly that being an insane genius was all very well but that kind of thing didn't tend to amuse the CPS. They were frequently at loggerheads, and evenings all too often descended into shouting matches.
They both enjoyed it far too much.
When he dropped round, Lestrade always brought milk.
Sometimes he'd also bring some kind of takeaway, and sit and make Sherlock eat a share, just for the knowledge that he'd had at least something to eat that week.
On rare occasions, Sherlock would play for him, and Lestrade would sit with his eyes closed and listen, and neither of them would mention it afterwards.
Lestrade knew, with a sinking inevitability, that he was falling in love.
He wondered, sometimes, which way Sherlock was inclined, as he never mentioned any partners, or gave any clue. He tried very hard not to fantasise, for fear that Sherlock (or worse, Donovan), would somehow read it in his mind. He wasn't entirely successful.
--
"I'm sorry, but I just don't believe you."
The door to the flat banged shut behind them and Sherlock whirled round on him, all impatient hands and angrily flashing eyes.
"Just because my reasoning is apparently beyond your limited and muddleheaded grasp doesn't mean I'm making it up, Inspector any more than lightbulbs work by witchcraft or computers through telepathy."
Lestrade wasn't giving up so easily. "Look, you might have convinced that woman you could tell she was having an affair because of the dog hair on her coat but you're not bullshitting me Sherlock, you found that out some other way, and if I find you're holding out on a source - "
"Oh spare me from the tiny closed minds of the policeforce!" Sherlock threw himself onto the couch and groaned dramatically.
Lestrade sat down stiffly in the armchair, unwilling to give way on what he saw as Sherlock's usual act of smoke and mirrors, and trying not to be distracted by the long pale neck visible above Sherlock's open shirt collar, or the deft fingers fidgeting with the fraying edge of a cushion.
"Prove it," he demanded stubbornly.
"What?"
"Prove it. If you're so damn insightful, convince me. Tell me something about me that no-one could possibly have told you."
"No."
"You can't, can you?" he crowed triumphantly.
"Of course I can, you just won't like it."
"Hah!"
"Fine!" Sherlock sat up, swinging his feet onto the floor and fixing him with a focussed gaze of concentration. "You really want to know what I've divined about you Lestrade?"
"Yes." Lestrade felt a spike of unease but there was no way he was backing down now. And then suddenly Sherlock was speaking, a rapid, unrelenting babble of facts that rooted Lestrade to the spot in a cold sweat of horror.
"You're gay, or you at least have a strong bias that way. You wear a wedding ring because it stops people asking, because you don't have time for relationships, the job gets in the way, and flings are risky for a man in your position. So you try not to think about it. Are you lonely, Inspector? Yes, you must be, the long hours preclude a lasting relationship but then in themselves become a way of filling your day with human contact, and in your job enough of them are appalling that that you remember to be grateful to still be alone when you get home. But then even that's not enough, your colleagues respect you but don't especially like you, you don't socialise with them, your friends are all married with kids. And so you come here, repeatedly seek me out even though you disparage my methods, the only other man you know consistently awake in the middle of the night who won't turn you away."
Sherlock ran out of breath. There was a strained silence between them in which the tick of the clock was suddenly loud.
"Piss off."
"And you call me childish?" Sherlock sat back, fingers steepled and pressed against his lips.
Lestrade's face was a tight mask, and he got to his feet.
"I'm sorry if you've felt I was intruding all this time. I'd hate to inflict my clearly pitiful state on you. I won't come again, don't worry."
He turned to leave and Sherlock moved with a speed hitherto unsuspected, flattening his back against the door before Lestrade could reach for the handle.
"Don't be a dullard."
"Excuse me?"
"For heaven's sake, I'm only speaking the truth, is it that unfaceable? Nothing was meant as a criticism."
"Oh well that's alright then," Lestrade scowled, voice heavy with sarcasm.
Sherlock flapped his hand impatiently. "Don't be one of them Lestrade. I'd thought with you at least I could speak freely."
He moved carefully away from the door once he was confident Lestrade would no longer try and walk out.
Lestrade sighed.
"Not a people person, are you Sherlock?"
"People are ghastly. Why would I want to be?" Sherlock dropped back onto the sofa and closed his eyes.
Lestrade slowly retraced his steps, took up his seat in the armchair once more.
"You counting me in that?"
Sherlock smiled without opening his eyes. "You? Are - bearable. At least when you don't persist in taking everything I say as a calculated insult."
Lestrade pursed his lips, then gave a resigned laugh. Bearable. That was practically a declaration of undying devotion from Sherlock.
"What about you?"
"I'm quite un-bearable, I'm sure."
Lestrade laughed. "Well you'll get no argument from me on that. But I meant - "
"Oh I'm perfectly aware what you meant." Sherlock swung his feet to the floor, sitting up and looking intently at Lestrade. "But the question's irrelevant."
"Well, I'm not saying it matters, either way - " Lestrade protested, but Sherlock interrupted him.
"No, no, you misunderstand me - as usual. I'm not interested."
"I wasn't - "
"Weren't you?" Sherlock grinned and leaped to his feet. "But no, you're still not getting it are you? I'm not interested. At all."
"In sex?" Lestrade clarified, feeling as thick as Sherlock frequently accused him of being.
"In sex. Exactly."
"You have - had it, I suppose?"
Sherlock looked scathing. "Naturally. You can't have a worthwhile theory unless it's based in experiential data."
"I bet you were a fabulous date."
Sherlock looked annoyed and clammed up. After a second, Lestrade couldn't resist probing further.
"So..?"
"So? I tried it. Didn't do anything for me." Sherlock looked dismissive and started pacing round the room with long strides of pent up nervous energy.
"With a girl?"
Sherlock nodded. "I naturally assumed at first this meant I was gay. So I tried that, and that didn't do anything for me either."
"You - " Lestrade bit his lip, stifling a smile. "Just like that?"
"Well yes, I was at university, it wasn't difficult to find a partner."
Lestrade, whose own university days had been filled with a lot less sex that he would have liked, nodded solemnly.
"You don't think it might just have been - you know. Maybe they weren't very - good?"
"I gathered enough data to form a conclusive opinion."
Lestrade duly translated this into a mental image of Sherlock having sex with a string of different people and wasn't sure whether he was amused or faintly turned on. Actually, the more he thought about it, not so faintly.
Sherlock was watching him.
"You think you could convince me otherwise."
"What?" Lestrade looked up, startled.
Sherlock sighed. "That was an opinion Inspector, not an offer."
"Oh. Well, I just - you probably just haven't found the right person." Although God knows who that person would be, he thought silently.
"How very patronising."
Lestrade huffed in exasperation. "Do you want me to go?"
"What I'd like is you to stop threatening to leave every time I venture an opinion you disagree with. It's very tiring."
"So are you, stop bloody pacing!"
Sherlock dropped down onto the arm of Lestrade's chair and studied him.
"You really do think you could make me like it," he said softly.
"Well, I - " Lestrade stuttered. "I'm not claiming to be the world champion or anything."
"It's not about prowess, it's about compatibility, you're right there at least." Sherlock looked considering, then shook his head. "But still, ultimately pointless, in my case I'm afraid. Sorry."
"That's - I mean, I wasn't - I didn't - "
"You hoped."
"Yeah. Yeah, alright, maybe I did," he confessed, looking away.
Sherlock reached out, stroked the back of one finger across Lestrade's cheek. "Sorry," he breathed, again, and Lestrade felt things tighten unbearably inside as those clear, pale eyes stared down into his own.
Before he knew what he was doing he'd pulled Sherlock down into his lap and was kissing him, desperately, hands tangled in his hair, cock rapidly stiffening under the pressure of the body sprawled over his legs, his tongue in Sherlock's mouth, tasting, plundering.
Sherlock bore all this with a patient passivity that eventually filtered through to Lestrade's brain and he broke off, panting slightly. Sherlock smiled at him, apologetically, and Lestrade closed his eyes and winced.
"Shit."
"It's okay."
"No, it's not, I - sorry. I'll go."
"I thought I told you to stop doing that?"
Lestrade opened his eyes again in surprise. "You can't want me to stay, after that?"
"Why would I want to you go because of it?" Sherlock countered. "I'm flattered. Really. But then, if your ego can't cope with the fact I haven't melted into your arms - "
"Bollocks!"
" - then fair enough, I suggest you go, otherwise, I was rather enjoying your company."
Lestrade looked disbelieving.
"...really?"
"Really." Sherlock slid an arm around Lestrade's shoulders and pressed a kiss to his temple. "Promise."
Lestrade mustered the bruised fragments of his confidence and smiled up at him ruefully. Heaved a sigh.
"Get off then you big asexual poof."
Sherlock grinned in delight and slid to the floor, resuming his sprawl on the couch. "Technically that's an oxymoron."
"Well, you'd know."
The bickering once more continued well into the early hours.
--