Title: Of Having Met You, And Loved You [1/4]
Summary: Lestrade left his wife for Sherlock two and a half years ago. Now John Watson has arrived and Lestrade can feel the world he knows shifting around him.
Characters: Everyone
Pairing: Sherlock/Lestrade, eventual John/Sherlock in later parts
Rating: PG-15

Lestrade has dinner with his wife (ex-wife) once or twice a month, during which he enquires after the well-being of their son and they pretend that she doesn't hate him for leaving her. (For another man, no less.) It's not easy and more often than not Lestrade finds that he misses her, misses their son with an ache so deep that it causes paroxysms in his chest and he finds that he can't breathe for a few seconds. And it galls him to think that he left them for the absolutely crazy, topsy-turvy world he lives in now. He's thought about going back, about begging her and then he thinks of Sherlock Holmes spread out on the sheets of his bed, gasping and writhing and arching and Lestrade knows that he can't give that up.

He's a selfish bastard. He knows this. He has been riddled with guilt about it since he was first crowded against a cell wall by Sherlock and all but molested in his own domain.

But he also knows there is absolutely nothing he can do about it. He'd tried to leave Sherlock, more than once, over the years but Sherlock is relentless and Lestrade's defenceless and it's just a huge fucking mess all over again.

"Jeremy saw your interview on the news the other night."

Lestrade winces and looks down at the minestrone soup he's been fiddling with for the past few minutes.

"I thought we weren't letting him watch the news."

Sylvia shrugs slightly and Lestrade catches a hint of defiance in the set of her lips. He feels his hackles rise and his jaw tightens of its own accord.

"He'd been watching the cartoons; they did a news break. I couldn't exactly help it. That guy was a Lord, or something."

Lestrade nods but sets his spoon into his dish and pushes it away. He hadn't been particularly hungry when he'd left the office and he certainly wasn't now.

"You're right, I guess." Sylvia nods and Lestrade looks up at her more carefully. She looks better than she has in the years since Lestrade left her, though she still looks tired. He feels a pang but he knows it's ridiculous – she'd looked tired even when they'd been together. "How are you?" He asks because he's no Sherlock Holmes; he may have known her for almost twenty years but he can't deduce what she's thinking from the necklace she chose to wore, or the colour of her nail polish.

She looks momentarily startled by the question and her lips quirk up at the sides slightly, her eyes downcast.

"I'm fine. I'm... better." Lestrade nods but she's not looking so he makes a sound in the back of his throat that he hopes she understands. "And you? How are... you?"

He knows what she's not asking, knows the name they don't say when they are together.

"Same as always," he replies just as vaguely and she nods, the air around them straining slightly. He clears his throat. "Listen-"

His phone beeps in his pocket. He pauses, his hand half way to his coat pocket but she simply smiles tightly and drops her spoon into her own bowl.

They've found another body. Believe me yet? SH

His phone rings in his hand. Ten minutes later he's on his way to another crime scene.

When he gets home, Sherlock's lying sprawled out across the sofa, his black leather duffel bag sitting beside the couch. Lestrade doesn't mind when Sherlock stays (he's been trying to convince him to move in for months now) but he wouldn't mind a bit of forewarning.

"What have you done this time?"

Sherlock tilts his head back over the arm of the couch as Lestrade shuffles around the room to the two-seater couch and drops onto it.

"Nothing."

Lestrade raises an eyebrow and kicks his feet up onto the low coffee table in between the couches.

"Right."

When Sherlock doesn't tell him, Lestrade has come to understand that it's best not to know.

"How was dinner?"

Lestrade freezes. He knows Sherlock knows but it's another one of those things that they just don't talk about. For some reason, Sherlock doesn't like to remember that he's a home wrecker.

"Fine."

He doesn't say anything to that. Silence stretches between them – it's not uncomfortable, not quite – and Lestrade closes his eyes, letting too many late nights creep up on him. He can hear the rhythmic tapping of small plastic keys as Sherlock types out message after message in his phone; there's a low buzz of traffic from outside the window; the central heating pipes chink beneath the floorboards; his breathing gets louder in his ears... He's on the edge of sleep when Sherlock deigns to speak again:

"Are you planning on sleeping all night? Only, I've been thinking of fucking you for the past two hours and nothing short of the act is going to help with the erection I've had since you walked in the door."

Lestrade doesn't open his eyes but he does smirk and it's all the invitation Sherlock needs.

He doesn't see Sherlock again for almost three weeks – which is probably for the best as he'd taken an absolute pummelling at work for the hickies on his neck that were too high for him to cover up. He and Sherlock don't consider their relationship a secret but it's not something that is known to the general populace of Scotland Yard and neither of them is effusive enough to give anything away with their body language.

When he does next see him, though, it's after his team have hit another dead end and Lestrade is exhausted again, and hungry and all he wants to do is fall into bed and sleep for a few days. He doesn't even care if he manages to take any of his clothes off. Except that Sherlock makes sure he does get naked and that when he does eventually get to sleep, it's the sleep of the dead.

When he wakes, it's too warm and his back feels like it's pressed up against a radiator. Sherlock's still there, then. He glances at the clock - 07.27 - and leans back against Sherlock.

"Good morning," Sherlock murmurs, his voice a deep rumble at Lestrade's ear. He shivers and Sherlock chuckles slightly.

"Morning." He closes his eyes and sighs, content. He could just stay like this all day.

"Donovan sent you a text; your superiors have organised a press conference today so you'd better shave..."

Lestrade wants to groan in complaint because the thought of a press conference makes him want to run away (they always do but especially with this case, where he has no clue what's going on but is being too stubborn to ask Sherlock for help) but Sherlock's fingers are stroking against the grain of the stubble on his jaw while his lips suck at that spot just below Lestrade's ear and he's gone, swept away again by the tidal wave that is Sherlock.

"I found a new flat," Sherlock informs him over a breakfast of coffee (Lestrade has toast but Sherlock's not eating today) and Lestrade nods, despite his disappointment. "You know I won't move in with you, Lestrade, so this cycle of disappointment every time I find a flat should stop."

Lestrade sighs into his cup.

"I know."

Sherlock eyes him, his gaze cold and clinical again and Lestrade hates it. He feels two inches tall under that gaze.

"Good." He drains his cup and drops it in the sink (a first) before he flutters out of the kitchen and grabs his bag. "Molly text; fresh bodies at Barts."

He's gone before Lestrade has managed to process what he said.

The press conference doesn't go well – and that's before Sherlock starts interfering. He hates the pressure that the cameras put him under, hates the stress of people asking him questions, interrogating him – that's his job, not theirs. Sally can sense his tenseness and moves to wrap up the questions. His phone goes again.

221B Baker Street. SH

He deletes the message.

There's another body (bloody press conference) and he concedes that he's going to have get Sherlock in on it. He calls Sally over, hands control of the scene to her while he goes to fetch Sherlock.

"We can handle it, sir," Sally protests and Anderson glances up from his perusal of the body (too much pink) and nods in agreement. "You don't have to-"

"I disagree. We'll just give him five minutes and that'll be it." Sally gives him a sceptical look and he sighs again, knowing that she's right. That's never all once Sherlock gets involved. He knows there will be insults tossed about, that Sherlock will trample all over the boundaries of red-tape and he knows that there'll be no sex for him while Sherlock works. He also knows that Sherlock will get answers. "I'll be back in a bit," he says to Sally and grimaces along with her. To Anderson he says, "don't move anything."

Baker Street is much better (cleaner, safer, central) than any of the places Sherlock has lived in the past few years and Lestrade wonders if Sherlock has finally caved and taken money from Mycroft. (Lestrade has had the privilege of meeting Mycroft in a dim hospital corridor after Sherlock had almost OD-ed on heroine and he doesn't know how Sherlock manages to resist the elder Holmes – exposure, probably. But Mycroft Holmes is creepy, even by Lestrade's standards.)

There's no answer when he knocks and he feels bad when he pushes the front door open but he'd seen Sherlock at the window and he knows the other man is expecting him. He makes his way up the stair and ignores how out of breath he is from that slight exertion and fixes his eyes on Sherlock, silhouetted against the high window. When Lestrade comes to a stop, Sherlock twists from his hips and looks at something to Lestrade's right. There's an older woman fluttering about the room and Lestrade ignores her as he answers Sherlock's query.

Then he notices. Sherlock... Sherlock is showing off. Lestrade flicks his eyes around the room and discovers a man sitting in an armchair, his hands folded over the head of a hospital-issue walking stick looking... bored. Lestrade dismisses him and turns back to Sherlock.

"Will you come?"

Sherlock looks at him, and there's a mischievious glint to his eye that Lestrade ignores (has to, else they'll never make it back to the crime scene and he's under enough pressure already).

"Not in a police car."

That's all Lestrade needs to hear.

Lestrade... was not expecting the man from the flat to show up at the crime scene with Sherlock. And he didn't know what to do with Sherlock's vehement "He's with me" either because Sherlock doesn't have people.

He watches Sherlock – like he always does – as the man moves about the body and when Sherlock invites Dr Watson to tell him what he thinks, Lestrade isn't sure whether to be amused or surprised, so he settles for both and turns to make sure Anderson keeps everyone from the room.

When he comes back, Lestrade feels like he's in the Twilight Zone. Sherlock is still showing off (it's almost like watching a peacock) and when Watson repeats his expressions of awe, Sherlock isn't annoyed like Lestrade thought he would be. In fact-

"No, it's... it's fine."

He's almost shy. Coy.

Lestrade doesn't know what to think. Inside, a bubble of something far too much like jealousy forms in his gut and he tries to pop it before it blossoms but he's not entirely sure that it's possible. Because Sherlock has never, never looked at Lestrade the way he just looked at Watson. Sure, he's seen Sherlock iput on/i coy in an effort to get Lestrade back to bed but that- what he's just witnessed was... He's not sure what that was.

The only word he can think of is 'pure'.

He retaliates, perhaps harshly, with a drug's bust. It's unfair and uncalled for and the look Sherlock sends him is one of betrayal but then Sherlock and John are sharing air and Lestrade's sure he's not the only one in the room who feels like he's intruding.

And then Sherlock, the iidiot/i, goes with the killer-cabbie - and almost gets shot into the bargain. In the chaos that is yet another crime scene, Lestrade hunts through the crowds for the familiar head of hair. He sees Sally and she nods in the direction of the ambulance and Lestrade feels his stomach drop. He knows Sherlock doesn't do ambulances and...

But he's panicking over nothing because Sherlock is there, covered in an orange shock blanket that has Lestrade smiling slightly and a few of his guys taking pictures. He wants to reach out and touch, so he buries his hands in his pockets and shares a few words with Sherlock. He wants to rant and shout and demand to know just what Sherlock thought he was bloody well doing but there's time for that later, after the clean up and questions.

Except there's not. Because Sherlock has that look in his eye he gets when something is iinteresting/i and he's walking away from the ambulance – from Lestrade – with nought but a casual dismissal about talking about the rent and Lestrade is left to gape at the retreating figure.

He watches, sees Watson chuckle and Sherlock smile (real, genuine – that word again -, 'pure') and Mycroft's there. He turns away when Sally approaches but keeps an eye on the group on the periphery of the scene. Sherlock – still preening – walks away with Watson without looking over his shoulder.

The next day, Lestrade doesn't get out of bed until well after eleven and even then that's only because he can hear the tell tale sounds of someone moving about out in his living room. He rolls out of bed, runs his hand through his hair and picks up the glass of water that's been sitting on his nightstand for three days and downs the contents.

It's more than revolting.

In the living room, Sherlock is dismantling the television from its mount on the wall. Lestrade watches for a few moments, appreciating the way the white shirt pulls tight across Sherlock's shoulders as he moves, the powerful muscles of his back shifting under fabric and skin. Lestrade doesn't understand what it is about the sight that has his morning erection reasserting itself in his shorts.

"What are you doing?" He asks when it becomes clear Sherlock isn't going to say anything.

"I'm trying to ascertain what size of screw holds this to the wall."

Lestrade nods for a few moments before he stops and starts shaking it instead.

"Why?" Sherlock doesn't answer. "Sherlock?"

"Hm? Oh. I need to find out what screws to buy so we can put the television on the wall. There's no space big enough for it on the furniture we have and a new television stand won't fit."

Lestrade frowns.

"It's already on the wall, Sherlock."

"What?" Sherlock turns to him then, his brows pulled into a quizzical frown and Lestrade knows he's fighting a losing battle as Sherlock rummages in his coat that is lying discarded over the arm of the couch. Sherlock has no interest in what Lestrade is saying to him. "No." Sherlock quirks a bemused smile at Lestrade then turns back to the (now bare) wall mount after he pulls a screwdriver from a pocket of the coat. Lestrade's really not going to ask. "John has a flat screen TV and I bought a wall mount for it this morning but there were no screws in it."

"John?"

"Yes," Sherlock says and Lestrade would need to be deaf not to pick up on the irritation in his voice. "John."

"And who is John?"

"Surely your memory isn't that bad, Lestrade," he retorts, his tone sardonic and Lestrade rolls his eyes. "John Watson, my new flatmate, you met him yesterday."

Lestrade splutters.

"What?"

Sherlock's finished unscrewing the screw from the wall and he holds it up for a moment before pocketing it and spinning around to face Lestrade.

"I couldn't afford Baker Street on my own, so I had to get a flat mate. John moved in last night. Or rather, this morning-" he draws his brows together again and looks over Lestrade's shoulder "-depends on how you look at it. Anyway. I have all I need," he continues and taps his trouser pocket.

"You needed a flatmate and you didn't ask me? I've been trying to get you to move in here for months, Sherlock!"

Sherlock's face goes completely blank and Lestrade hates that look. It's always a precursor to Sherlock walking out and not speaking to him for weeks. (The last time it happened, Lestrade had called Mycroft when Sherlock had gone on a four day binge just over a year ago and it'd taken Lestrade seven weeks to convince Sherlock to talk to him, let alone stay over.)

"And I've been telling you for months, Greg, that I won't."

"Why not?"

Sherlock's stare turns baleful and Lestrade bristles at the sight of it.

"You know why."

Lestrade laughs at that and shakes his head.

"You know, Sherlock, I really don't. Why don't you just tell me something for once?"

"This-"

"And if you say 'this is just sex'-"

"I wasn't going to say that but now I'm intrigued as to how you were going to finish that sentence. If I had said that, Greg, what? You'll do what?"

Lestrade glares.

"Just tell me, Sherlock."

"It's not 'just sex'. But it's certainly not love either and by moving in-"

"Sherlock."

For once, Sherlock uses tact and shuts up. He stares and Lestrade stares back.

"Go."

Sherlock huffs and Lestrade turns away.

"I don't understand why verbalising something that we both know to be the truth changes anything." Lestrade shakes his head. Of course Sherlock doesn't understand. "Just because I don't love you doesn't mean I don't want you."

"Sherlock-" He stalls when he feels Sherlock's warmth at his back. The man can move like a panther when he wants to. "What are you doing?"

"I hate performatives, Lestrade." His breath washes over Lestrade's neck and he shudders as the heat from it heads straight to his groin and he decides he hates performatives, too.

They don't make it to the bedroom – in fact, they don't make it farther than the three steps it takes for Sherlock to have Lestrade pushed up against the wall - and when Sherlock leaves over an hour later, Lestrade goes to turn the TV on and realises it's sitting on the floor, propped up against the wall and the four screws that attach the mount to the wall are gone.