A/N: Hey, team! So, think Post-Empty House, with the showdown with Moran having taken place immediately across the street from 221B. Also, be forewarned: this one takes an unapologetic plunge into the sentimental. I don't own these characters. Thanks!

Lestrade sees it.

In the moment when Moran is cuffed and about to be led away, Sherlock steps up next to John, and gives Moran a very meaningful look.

You lose, the look says. This is my place, and you will not keep me from him again.

John doesn't see it. He's looking at the floor, thoughts obviously far away. The bruises on his knuckles match up nicely with ones forming on Moran's face, so Lestrade would be willing to guess that some part of Sherlock's plan went wrong, and John showed up in time to intervene. But the doctor is distant now. He's put himself in an out-of-the-way corner, and though his expression is blank, there's something about the way he's standing that makes Lestrade cringe.

Scalded, Lestrade thinks. He looks like he's been burned and is only now becoming aware of it.

Sherlock botched the reunion, then; John doesn't understand.

And Moran's not the only one sporting bruises, Lestrade notes with grim satisfaction, eyeing the angry purple on Sherlock's cheekbone.

His eyes shift back to John, to the sightless gaze, the absolute stillness. No, the doctor does not understand, but he would if he could see.

Look up, John, Lestrade mentally prods. You're missing it.

Now that Moran is out of the room, Sherlock's demeanor has changed. The detective is entirely focused on John, edging closer to the doctor with trepidation and a look that speaks a thousand questions.

No, Lestrade corrects himself. One question. THE question.

Look, John. You can see it.

Sherlock's body language is asking. Treading so lightly, so obviously afraid of a refusal, starving for affirmation. Asking admittance. A pilgrim at the gate, seeking sanctuary. Sherlock petitioning to reenter the only place Lestrade has ever seen the detective truly find comfort and a semblance of peace—John Watson's life.

Footsore, bruised, exhausted, depleted, and asking. Asking.

Lestrade understands very clearly why Moriarty used John against Sherlock. The loss of Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson would have wounded Sherlock certainly, even deeply. But to lose John…

One of the remaining officers drops a clipboard with a clatter. The sound jars Watson from his thoughts, and he becomes aware of Sherlock standing close. John takes a reflexive step back, making room for Sherlock to take the lead, an old habit at crime scenes. Sherlock only hesitates for half a second before striding out of the room with John in his wake.

Lestrade sighs, running a thumb over the corner of his mouth.

Please look up, John, he thinks. He's drowning.

Over an hour later, the evidence is bagged, the paperwork is underway, and the last of the officers are wrapping up their loose ends. Lestrade steps back out into the street and raises his eyes to 221B's windows. There are lights on in the flat. At least one of the men is up there, and Lestrade still needs their statements.

He lets himself in through the front door and climbs to the flat with slow, plodding steps. He's tired, so bloody tired, and he's a bit afraid of what he'll find at the top of the stairs.

His imagination is painting him an awful picture of Sherlock alone, sitting in his armchair, curly head in his hands, John nowhere to be found. It's actually sickening, that thought. Or perhaps worse still, the idea of Sherlock gone cold. Unplugging his emotions in the face of John's rejection; a giant step backward toward the man he had been all those years before.

Sherlock has come so far, and to lose all that now… Well, it would mean a sort of victory for Moriarty after all, wouldn't it?

Lestrade would feel better if he could hear them, but it's silent in the rooms above. Swearing under his breath, he quickens his pace.

What if John turned him down?

Sherlock without John, Sherlock lonely, Sherlock gone hard, gone cold, gone distant, Sherlock the sociopath, Sherlock the junkie, Sherlock…

Stop it.

The door on the landing is standing open, so Lestrade braces himself and pushes into the living room.

And stops short.

Sherlock is not in his chair.

Because Sherlock is on the sofa, unceremoniously collapsed against John Watson. And they're both sound asleep.

A weighty emotion drops through Lestrade—relief—enough to force the air out between his lips and make him wish he could sit.

Sherlock is boneless, slumped against John's side. His head is tucked into the curve of John's shoulder, the dark curls squashed against the doctor's jaw. John's breath is steady. His body has shifted slightly to hold the detective's weight as his head rests against Sherlock's crown.

Finally, Lestrade thinks. Oh, thank heaven.

Neither of the sleepers stir under his scrutiny. They're both too far gone, having given in to the kind of exhaustion that comes from so many years spent bearing up so much weight.

Well, then. Lestrade smirks, a tad giddy. The bloody statements will just have to wait.

He picks up the cold, half-drunk mugs of tea on the coffee table and dumps them in the sink. Clicking off the kitchen light, he steps back into the living room, halting when he spots a newcomer in the doorway.

Mycroft Holmes eyes him, expression bland, and Lestrade feels an irrational urge to put himself between Mycroft and the two men on the sofa. The idea of Mycroft waking them, of lessening this… well, that's not going to happen.

Perhaps Mycroft sees this, because he turns his head back toward the sleepers but does not move or speak. Lestrade takes the chance to cross the living room and turn out the lamps. He pauses once more in front of the sofa, taking a last look. Sherlock shifts in his sleep, turning his head further into John's shoulder, and John sighs faintly into Sherlock's curls.

And it dawns on Lestrade with a sort of crystalline instinct: this is it.

This moment, this absolution, this peace, here, sinking into John's solid presence, shielded and upheld. This is what Sherlock has been waiting for.

This is Sherlock come home.

Lestrade blinks, swallowing what would have been a choked sort of chuckle. Then he reins in his emotion and turns to face the elder Holmes.

Crowding Sherlock's brother into the hallway, he snicks the door shut and follows Mycroft down the stairs. Lestrade's mouth pulls into a grim half-smile. It's time that he and Mr. Minor-Role-in-the-British-Government have a little chat about how things are going to be different the next time some psychopath decides to use him as leverage.