"Goodnight."

With that, Sherlock rose from the couch and immediately headed up the stairs.

"I'll be up in a bit—just need to finish this file," the detective inspector called after the other, not looking up from the folder in his lap. He had been living at 221b Baker Street for almost six months and had, for the most part, gotten used to Sherlock's abrupt comings and goings. While others might expect a kiss before bed, or an announcement of where he was going before he vanished into the night, Lestrade had learned that Sherlock was not one for superfluous actions or words.

After a short while, Lestrade set down the file and glanced at the clock. He expected that, like many other times, he'd lost track of time while going over case files, but it was only nine-forty. That surprised him even more than a misplaced three hours, since he couldn't remember the last time Sherlock had gone to bed before two in the morning, let alone before John returned from late shift at the surgery. Finishing his mug of tea and setting it back on the table beside him, he stood and made his way up the stairs.

Sherlock was lying on the bed, facing away from the door, still wearing his suit—not that unusual, but still wearing his shoes—that was odd. Lestrade leaned against the doorframe and looked over the younger man, who had also left the light on in the room. Clearing his throat, he asked, "You alright, Sherlock?"

"Quite alright," the other replied, not moving from his position on the bed, "Just tired. Now, if you don't mind, either come to bed or go back downstairs."

"Now, I know that you're always the one to figure things out for me, but I think you're hiding something." Lestrade kicked off his shoes and lay down on the bed next to the detective, putting one arm around him. He pressed his lips against the back of Sherlock's neck, intending only to place a kiss to the small area of exposed skin, but instead found more reason to be concerned about the younger man. "You're running a fever."

"Obviously, Greg," Sherlock sighed, "Thirty-eight point five, nothing to worry about."

Brushing curls out of the way, Lestrade pressed the back of his hand to Sherlock's forehead. "You knew you were ill?"

"I've been logging my temperature since this morning."

"I'm calling John."

For the first time since he went upstairs, Sherlock turned around and looked at Lestrade. "That's unnecessary. He'll be back soon, and there's no need for a doctor with this amount of sickness."

Finally able to look the young man over, Lestrade could see a pink flush across Sherlock's cheeks, as well as a thin sheen of sweat on his face and neck. His eyes had a glazed look to them, not the usual sharp curiosity and intensity. Leaning over, he placed a kiss on the sick man's lips and whispered, "At least let me put you to bed properly."

Sherlock nodded, an uncharacteristic resigned air about him. Wordlessly, Lestrade found Sherlock's pajamas and began the process of undressing the other man. As he set Sherlock's neatly folded suit on the foot of the bed, he noticed that the detective was shivering, and doing his best to conceal that fact. He dressed Sherlock quickly and pulled back the covers, helping the other inside and drawing the blanket up to his chest.

"You rest—I'll be right back." Lestrade went downstairs and returned a few minutes later, juggling his case file, a bottle of paracetamol, a glass of water, a package of crackers, and the blanket from the couch. Being especially careful with the glass of water, he set everything down on the bedside table, with the exception of the blanket, which he draped over Sherlock's still-shivering form. He shook out two tablets of paracetamol and handed them to the other along with the water. "Do you need anything else?"

Sherlock swallowed the pills and flopped back against the pillow. "Get in bed, I'll fit myself in around you."

Lestrade ruffled Sherlock's hair, causing the younger man to glare at him for a moment before curling up again. He quickly changed into his own nightclothes and slid under the covers, leaning against the headboard and reopening his case file. As soon as he was settled, Sherlock shifted closer and placed his head in Lestrade's lap, perfectly positioned for the detective inspector to rub his back or continue combing his fingers through the other's dark curls. Occasionally, Sherlock would cough in his sleep or lift his head and mumble a few words about the wounds on the bodies from the case they were working on, but for the most part, he was quiet, and Lestrade, not wanting to wake him, was content to sleep while sitting up for the night, his case file falling beside him on the bed.

Lestrade woke up to the bed shifting beneath him. He blinked, looking around the dark room, eventually setting his gaze on John, who, still wearing his coat, was sitting on the bed and pressing a hand to Sherlock's forehead. He watched as the doctor sighed and gently shook the sleeping man's shoulder. "Sherlock, wake up. Let me take a look at you."

"You'll need to try a little more than that to wake him," Lestrade said, keeping his voice soft, "He's pretty well done in. I've never seen him like this." John leaned over Sherlock and kissed Lestrade, who smiled and added, "Welcome home."

"Sorry it took me so long," John apologized, unbuttoning his coat and tossing it onto the floor, "You know those patient visits that require every form to be filled out in triplicate, sent to the NHS, faxed back, notarized, and entered into the data system? Of course you don't, what am I saying—anyways, one of those came in just at the end." He reached for Sherlock's wrist and began to take his pulse. "You have no idea how glad I am to be home."

Lestrade watched as John continued to examine Sherlock, somehow keeping the entire encounter from feeling clinical in the slightest. When he finally coaxed Sherlock awake, it was with a trail of kisses across his jawline. While he waited for the thermometer to read, he rubbed Sherlock's back, not bothering to move the man from his position, sprawled across Lestrade's lap. And when Sherlock insisted that his new temperature—forty on the dot—be recorded in his phone, John didn't hesitate in obliging him.

Once John had gotten Sherlock re-settled in the bed with fewer blankets in an attempt to keep his fever from rising, he rose from the bed and said quietly to Lestrade, "I'm going to make some tea—care for a cup?"

"I'll come down with you." The detective inspector, no longer pinned beneath the sleeping Sherlock, got out from under the blankets and followed John downstairs with careful footsteps. In the kitchen, he retrieved mugs and tea from the "experiment-free" shelf while John put the kettle on. Leaning against the counter, looking at (but not even considering touching) the table covered in tubes and bottles and petri dishes, Lestrade smiled at what his life had turned into.

He and Sherlock had been seeing each other—that is to say, of course, not in a relationship, but shagging at the beginning, middle, or end of a case—for three or four years. No cuddling, no spending the night, just Sherlock appearing at his door, pushing him against a wall, kissing, undressing, fucking him, and then heading out before morning. Sometimes it was the other way around; other times, it would be late, they would be exhausted from working on a case, and beers together at the pub would turn into rough, angry, silent, beautiful sex in whomever's flat was closest. They never discussed it—there had never been reason to—and in the brief periods when Lestrade had taken on a girlfriend, Sherlock showed no signs of jealousy, no desire to keep up their encounters.

But out of nowhere, John showed up in 221b, somehow taking a liking to the consulting detective, in spite of Lestrade's slinking belief that no one but himself could see any redeeming qualities in the young man. Lestrade and Sherlock had been in the middle of a discussion about a triple murder when Sherlock abruptly announced that he and John were sleeping together on occasion. Against his better instincts, Lestrade had up and left, and while he was leaning against his car, doing his best to light a cigarette, which was difficult with his shaking hands—shaking out of anger? Jealousy? Either was stupid, Sherlock wasn't his—John had shown up at the door, apologizing for Sherlock and inviting him back inside, taking him by the hand and leading him back upstairs.

With John doing most of the talking, and Sherlock interjecting clarifications or snarky comments, the two had explained that the two flatmates, in the process of developing into a relationship of sorts—Sherlock has refused labels, being difficult as usual—had toyed with the idea of being nonmonogamous, specifically with Lestrade. That uncomfortable business-meeting-like encounter turned into a few dinner dates, then drinks, and eventually to the three of them stumbling back to Baker Street at two in the morning, a tangle of hands and tongues and limbs, falling into bed together as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Sherlock had, of course, remained married to his work, which resulted in many nights in which John and Lestrade were left alone at the flat. As it happened more and more often, it became less and less like the two of them were simultaneously dating Sherlock and more like they were all dating each other. John would stop by at Scotland Yard during the day under the pretense of passing on some information from Sherlock, but would end up stealing a kiss when no one was looking. Lestrade would pick John up from work at the surgery, take him out for dinner, just the two of them. When the three realized that the DI was de facto living at Baker Street, the three made it official, much to the surprise of Mrs. Hudson.

Lestrade shivered as he felt John's arms wrap around him. "You alright there?" the doctor asked, looking concerned. "You were just staring at Sherlock's—actually—I don't quite know what that is."

With nod, Lestrade replied, "Yeah, fine. Just tired, I suppose. And cold."

John hummed in disapproval, bringing a hand to Lestrade's forehead. "Slight fever, I think. I should have known that you'd come down with whatever he's got." He pulled his hand away, and gently pushed Lestrade toward the stairs. "Paracetamol. Bed. I'll be up soon."

"It's nothing, John, really—"

"I can only take care of the both of you as long as you stay out of the A&E," John chided, pouring water for tea, "Sherlock's getting close with a fever like that, and I don't want you ending up as bad as he is. Upstairs, now."

Feeling fine, with the exception of the fatigue and the cold and, come to think of it, a slight headache, Lestrade returned to the bedroom, finding Sherlock waiting for him, covers thrown off to the other side of the bed. "Your heart rate was elevated," he announced, not really making eye contact with Lestrade, but looking in his general direction, "I'm surprised you didn't develop chills and fever sooner."

Shivering—that was new—Lestrade swallowed two tablets from the bottle on the table, sank onto the bed and lay his head on the pillow next to Sherlock, muttering, "Regardless, I'm freezing—toss the blankets here."

He felt Sherlock tuck the covers in around him, and then the other man's arms surrounded him, his chest pressed against Lestrade's back: a perfectly warm, fevered embrace. With a sigh that turned into a cough, he relaxed, Sherlock's warm breath on the back of his neck, until he groaned, moving to sit up, "If I'm ending up like you, I'll need to call in for tomorrow."

"Already done," Sherlock said, putting a hand on Lestrade's shoulder and easing him back onto the bed, "I called in for you when John was giving you the once-over downstairs."

Too tired and ill to bother turning over, Lestrade protested. "You called? Sherlock, I told you, they can't find out at the Yard—"

"Calm down, I told them I was following up with you on a development when you said you felt ill and went to bed. If they don't already know, this won't change anything."

Doing his best to ignore the possibility that anyone at work might realize what was actually going on at 221b Baker Street, Lestrade curled closer against Sherlock and murmured his thanks before drifting into a fitful sleep.

Hours, minutes, or possibly seconds later—Lestrade was having a difficult time with, well, time—he blinked awake to the sounds of the door opening, and then quietly clicking shut. Mugs being set on the table. He heard the familiar rustle of John undressing and dressing again, and mumbled a welcome as the doctor slipped into bed between the two sleeping men.

"Sorry, didn't mean to wake you," John apologized, smoothing over Lestrade's damp hair with his hand. "Feeling any better?"

"Definitely not," Lestrade replied, rolling over and wrapping himself around John, head on the other man's chest.

"Back to sleep, then," John instructed, adding, "Feel better, detectives."

From the other side of the bed, Sherlock interjected, his voice hoarse and slurred with sleep, "Consulting detective."

Lestrade reached over John, who was chuckling softly, to tousle Sherlock's hair. The consulting detective coughed and shifted positions on the bed, and Lestrade pictured him holding onto John the same way that he was. Sure enough, when he reached a hand over John again, he found Sherlock's delicate fingers interlacing with his, giving a gentle squeeze before Lestrade fell back to sleep.