Sherlock heard the car pull away and the heavy trod of feet on the stairs. 'Ah, so Mycroft has chosen to deliver Lestrade to me. Bloody man can't stop meddling.' His train of thought ended when Lestrade knocked on the flat door.

"Go away!" Sherlock shouted, half hoping Lestrade would do as he said and leave him alone. He needed more time to think and he could hardly do that with the man in question standing mere feet away, loving him so loudly. The other half, the half Sherlock had been struggling with all week, desperately hoped the older man would ignore him and stay. He was driving himself mad, thinking in circles.

"No!" He heard Lestrade shout from the hallway. "Get up you lazy sod and let me in!"

Sherlock smirked, then molded his face into a frown. He huffed a sigh and rolled gracefully off the couch onto his feet. He made sure to stomp loudly as he made his way across the flat, his dressing gown flowing behind him. He wrenched open the door and glowered at other man.

"What," he gritted through clenched teeth, "do you want?" He drew himself up to his full height, the better to glower and intimidate Lestrade. It didn't work. 'Damn.'

Lestrade didn't bother to answer him, elbowing his way past the consulting detective and entering the flat proper. "Bleeding hell, it stinks in here." The DI sniffed, wrinkling his nose, as he looked around at the messier-than-usual flat. "Oh, Jesus Harry Christ, you stink, too. How many days have you been wearing those pajamas? Go take a shower while I make you something to eat."

Sherlock pouted and seemed to shrink in on himself but Lestrade wasn't having any of it. "Don't bother with that old routine. I know you, you probably haven't eaten in at least three days. Do as I say. You can finish your sulk after you've cleaned up and had a bite to eat. Go."

The older man put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and propelled him towards the bathroom. Sherlock sighed audibly, secretly pleased that Lestrade appeared to be over his strop and in full caregiver mode, and went to take a shower.

Twenty minutes later, clad in a clean set of pajamas and a different dressing gown, Sherlock entered the kitchen to find Lestrade plating the food he'd prepared. From the draft he felt, the other man also opened some windows.

Lestrade heard his approach and inclined his silver topped head towards the table. "Sit." He put the food in front of the seated detective. "Hope you don't mind beans on toast. You have nothing in. Shocking." He sat across from Sherlock with his own plate and tucked in.

Sherlock picked up his fork and dutifully ate his food, realizing with a start that he was actually hungry. In between bites, he offered, "I know Mycroft sent you. You don't have to be here. I realize it may make you uncomfortable considering … everything." He lifted his head and met the gaze of the other man. Lestrade flushed a bit but kept eating his food, shrugging a shoulder in lieu of a response.

After they finished eating, Lestrade got up and rinsed their plates. With his back turned, he spoke. "I'm not actually your brother's errand boy. No one sent me. I've had a lot of time to think about 'everything' as you so elegantly put it. I'm here because I want to be." Sherlock sat back in his chair in surprise and looked at the older man.

Lestrade turned around and pinned the younger man with a direct gaze. "Why didn't you tell me why you jumped that day? That I would've died if you hadn't? Why did I have to learn that from Mycroft? Why let me think you didn't care about me at all?"

Sherlock stood up abruptly, pushing his chair back. "I didn't know you felt that way! Why would you ever think that? I've always cared about you!" Now it was his turn to flush, 'Oh lovely,' he thought drily. He turned and stalked into the sitting room, the older man trailing behind him.

He spun and pointed at Lestrade. "You were there for me when no one else was! You literally picked me up and helped me get better! You got through to me when no one else could and convinced me to get clean! I've always relied on you." He paced back and forth, gesticulating wildly. "Before John, before Mrs. Hudson, there was always you. It was never just about the cases. I needed you! You always supported me. I can't believe you thought I was so heartless as to not care after all you've done for me. I know I've put on a good facade of being a heartless bastard over the years, but I always thought you saw through that. Saw that you matter to me… I was wrong. I always miss something."

He flopped onto the sofa and ran his hands through his hair in agitation. He flung himself down so he was in a prone position and folded his arms across his chest. Having given his little speech, he seemed to have run out of things to say. He closed his eyes, expecting to hear the sounds of Lestrade leaving the flat. To his surprise, he heard the other man settle down in one of the chairs by the fireplace.

"Er, well, I suppose part of me thought when you met John, that you didn't need me anymore. And it's true, you didn't need me the same way you used to. I brought you cases, you solved them. You had a best friend and it seemed what friendship we had between us was in the past. Over." Lestrade coughed and then cleared his throat. "But then you fucking died, Sherlock. You were dead and I was absolutely gutted. I grieved and instead of getting better with time, it got worse. It was harder to get up in the morning, knowing you were gone." He sucked in a shuddering breath and Sherlock sat upright, placing his feet on the floor and resting his elbows on his knees. Lestrade looked over and met his eyes. "At some point, I realized I'd fallen in love with you. I had to live knowing the man I loved was dead and I never got to tell him." His cheeks flushed pink but his gaze never wavered.

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but Lestrade held up a gentle hand. "Please, let me finish. I was beyond thrilled when you came back. I decided not to tell you how I felt. What would be the point, I thought. It was obvious you were so happy to be back and solving cases with John. The two of you against the rest of the world." The DI's voice broke off and Sherlock flinched, recognizing the phrase he'd spoken to John the night he unveiled himself to the doctor. Somehow, Lestrade heard about that and took the detective's words, meant to urge a reconnection with his best friend not a statement of fact, to heart. He dropped his head towards his chest, feeling a dull ache that threatened to grow with every beat of his heart. 'Oh, Lestrade, you daft fool.'

"I decided to withdraw myself from your orbit. I distanced myself, like you said. It just hurt too much to be near you, knowing you only cared about John. Always John." Sherlock lifted his head and saw Lestrade was now staring into the kitchen, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Sherlock stood and went to sit across from the other man, forcing him to look his way. "Greg, you have to know, I need you know, John may be my best friend but he's not my only friend. I never thought to qualify or quantify relationships before but I too have had a lot of time to think this past week. I was surprised by your revelation and I reacted… poorly. I had no idea you felt something for me other than concern and perhaps an irrational fondness." Lestrade huffed a silent laugh at this. Sherlock took this as encouragement to continue.

"You are a good man, Lestrade. I admit that human nature often leaves me baffled," Lestrade full on snorted a laugh at that statement. Sherlock smiled wryly, "it never occurred to me that someone as warm and thoughtful and caring as you would ever want me in that fashion. And I don't know if I'm capable of maintaining a romantic relationship that isn't based on deceit and an ulterior motive. But if I were ever to try, it would be with you." Now it was Sherlock's turn to avert his gaze. He sensed rather than saw Lestrade's head jerk up in shock.

"But... John. You love John. I know he's married but you love him Sherlock, it's obvious." Lestrade's voice was strained.

Sherlock shook his head slightly. "I do love John, just not in the manner you think. John isn't you, Greg. Whenever I let myself imagine a different path for my life, one in which I wasn't 'married to my work,' I always pictured it with you." He chanced a peek at the other man and quirked a half grin at the look of amazement on his face.

The detective leaned forward, "I'm not saying this will work out. Or, that it's a good idea. You know me and how I behave. But I'd like to try for something more. If you'd have me." He reached across the gap between them and tentatively rested his hand on other older man's knee.

Lestrade shook his head, and Sherlock's heart plummeted. He'd read the entire situation wrong. He made to move away when Lestrade placed his own work roughened hand atop his own long musicians fingers.

Lestrade beamed at him and Sherlock felt the tight feeling in his chest abate and he answered the other man's grin with one of his own.

Lestrade twined their fingers together and whispered softly, "Always, Sherlock. Always."