Disclaimer: we neither own, nor profit from, any characters or situations contained herein.

De-anon from kinkmeme prompt:

John gets married [to Sarah]. Sherlock didn't realise until he's gone how much he relied on John to provide, for example, food. Handily, recently post-divorced Lestrade is looking for somewhere to stay.
Eventual S/L would be amazing [sorry...], but I'd also like gen trials of living with a new housemate. No S/J, please! I'd like John to be happily married and Sherlock still happily dragging him around to crime scenes when he can.

Sherlock studied the faded gold lettering on the door to 221B Baker Street.

It had been a very busy, somewhat overwhelming day, and he could feel the weariness creeping into his bones. If John had known, he might have thought it was a little strange that days without sleep, running after criminals in dark alleys, did not tire Sherlock, but one afternoon of normal things could do him in completely.

He pushed open the door, stood for a moment on the threshold, then let it fall shut behind him. He didn't have to hold it open for John this time.

The corridor by the stairs was dark and soothing. A bit like the church had been, before all of the people had come in their bright blouses and dresses and ties, turning on the lights and setting out the flowers. The church had been rather lovely in the early morning light. Sherlock didn't quite understand why John and Sarah had insisted on filling it up with so many things.

Still, who was he to argue with them? It hadn't been his wedding, after all.

John had wanted him involved. He'd been quite taken aback when Sherlock had declined his request that he be best man; apparently it was "an honour" and "what best friends do" and also "I can't imagine wanting anyone else," but he'd found someone else, and Sherlock had been content to sit at the edge of the pew, in the back, quietly deducing anything that was interesting about the attendees from the backs of their heads. He'd come up with satisfactory reasons to explain to John why he hadn't wanted to be in the wedding party, but the truth of the matter was that weddings were all about people and feelings and significance, and Sherlock didn't really do those things. It wouldn't have been fair to John to pretend. Lestrade had been pleased and proud to be asked – and relieved, as well; his sudden lack of a plus-one seemed to have been weighing rather heavily on his mind. In the end, he had cut quite a dashing figure in his tuxedo, standing at the altar next to John. A good decision, then.

Sherlock flopped down onto the couch and opened his mouth, the words "Tea, John," already queued up and ready.

Oh.

He supposed he had better learn to make tea.

Curious, how… unfamiliar it seemed not to be able to just ask. Sarah could ask John for tea now, and it didn't seem quite fair. Sherlock had known John first, and they had shared more tea. Didn't that count for anything?

Well, perhaps the tea didn't matter. After all, Sherlock had been neglecting several very important experiments all day in order to attend this event of John's. He rummaged through the glassware on the dining table, stacked there because the kitchen had apparently been necessary for something to do with John, and located the Erlenmeyer flask he'd been seeking. The stopper was intact – small mercies – and the sample inside appeared to be growing quite a healthy population of bacteria. He bent over it, fishing around in the mess for a new package of Petri dishes, and forgot about the tea.

The silence was pleasant, allowing him full concentration on his work, until he brutally – though briefly – shattered it with the slightly-less-controlled-than-anticipated explosion of a series of cell culture flasks. Once the ringing in his ears had faded, though, the silence was…

… well, different.

John ought to be shouting at him right now. Disturbing the peace. Endangering my sanity. And the mess! Sherlock, we both know very well who's going to be cleaning this up. For God's sake, take it to Bart's!

The fact that no one was shouting at him seemed strange, and he wasn't quite sure how he felt about it.

Lestrade still smiled at his memories of the wedding two weeks ago.

Despite his recent issues, he had found the occasion to be a joyous one, and had stood grinning throughout the entire ceremony.

The colourful sight of the flowers and the people filling the church, the sound of the organ and the bells – clear and strong, yet so full of celebration, the ceremonious exchanging of the rings, the blissful yet powerful kiss, the ringing applause – they had all triggered memories of his own day, and although those memories were now decidedly bittersweet, he had found John's day wholly and completely sweet.

Except for one detail. One small thing, which was out of place then, and out of place now. Which stood before him, and which was the sole reason he wasn't smiling now.

Sherlock Holmes.

The man had simply sat there, in the back of the church – hadn't attended the reception, hadn't even wanted to be the best man. At his best friend's wedding. Lestrade had long since given up trying to understand Sherlock's motives, but this incident was almost enough to make him interested again.

He was a right holy terror now, though.

"Murder, Lestrade? Hardly a quarter hour on your own, and already you confess yourself out-matched. Morale must be very low indeed." Barely out of the cab, and already he was making a start.

Lestrade moved to intercept him before he got any closer to the tape.

"Now hang on, Sherlock, you can't just waltz in here and start tearing us up like that."

"Isn't that – " Sherlock broke off to cast a glance down at where Lestrade's hand gripped his arm, and Lestrade let go reluctantly under the force of those icy blue eyes.

"Thank you. As I was saying, isn't that what I always do?"

Lestrade looked him over quickly, eyes narrowed slightly. "No, it's not," he replied gaugingly. "Listen, are you all right? You – "

"Fine," Sherlock cut him off. "Brilliant. Fantastic. May I go and look now?" He made to go off in that direction, but was stopped by Lestrade's hand once more, and Lestrade took advantage of the man's obvious shock to finish.

"As I was saying, Sherlock, that isn't what you always do. It's not even what you normallydo."

Sherlock looked irritated, but the raised eyebrow indicated some small level of curiosity. Lestrade continued. "You normally waltz in here, look at the scene, and thenstart tearing us up. The work comes first."

"Unless I happen to encounter Donovan or Anderson before I encounter the scene."

"Why do you think I'm holding you back?"

"Fair enough. So tell me, Inspector, what have we got here?"

"You know, I'm not going to tell you just so you can go back to insulting everyone."

"You didn't particularly care before," Sherlock pointed out.

"Yes, we did!" called out a voice from inside the sectioned-off parking lot.

"Anderson!" reprimanded Lestrade at the same time as Sherlock returned, "Anderson, glad to see you weren't too tired to make it out this morning. That night life can be rough, can't it?"

Anderson froze, clearly caught off-guard. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly a few times before he got up a response. "And just how would you know about that? Although I suppose your doctor hasn't been married forever…"

Lestrade looked murderous. "That's enough, Anderson! Back to work, and I'll speak with you later!"

Anderson shot Sherlock a sneer, but turned away again quickly enough.

Taking a deep breath, Lestrade turned back to his problem child. "Now this, right here, is what I'm talking about, Sherlock! I can understand the occasional side remark, but you can't be explicit like that. And god help me for saying this, but now you know how it feels."

"My 'feelings' are irrelevant, Lestrade, and I am therefore quite happy to treat all 'feelings' likewise," Sherlock snapped. "They've only ever interfered with my work, and I don't see how they could avoid doing the same to everyone else's." He pried Lestrade's fingers off of his sleeve and stalked off towards the body.

Whatever the Detective Inspector had been expecting, it wasn't this. Demeaning remarks on his intelligence, perhaps, or snide, inconvenient deductions, but not an actual confession. Of course, he doubted the man realized how much he had let slip, especially given that he clearly didn't even trust Lestrade to be able to do his own job.

For all that Sherlock might be able to grind him into the dirt when it came to detective work, he didn't know the first thing about dealing with people. Apparently, "people" included himself.

Lestrade made a split-second decision and opted for the offensive. "You miss him, don't you?"

Sherlock halted abruptly and did an about-face, gravel crunching under his feet. "Sorry?"

"John. You miss him, don't you?"

"No," replied Sherlock, too quickly, "it's just different, that's all." He looked puzzled, though, and Lestrade did a mental head-slap. Had Sherlock honestly not realized he missed John? It was hardly surprising, given Sherlock, but all the same…

"Donovan!" Lestrade called sharply.

"Yes, sir?" she replied, ducking under the tape and coming up to the pair.

"You're in charge for the next fifty minutes, understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Sherlock, come on. We need to talk." He waylaid the consulting detective and herded him toward the street, but turned back to Donovan after a few steps. "Oh, and tell Anderson he's not gotten off so easily. I'll still be wanting to see him."

The sergeant's face paled slightly with sympathetic worry, but she responded dutifully. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Carry on."

"Yes, sir." She walked off, but cast a confused glance back over her shoulder as she ducked back under the tape.

Lestrade didn't catch it, though, as he was preoccupied with the similar expression on his charge's face. "What is this about?" asked Sherlock, a bit uncertainly.
Lestrade began propelling him towards a waiting cab.

"We're going to go get lunch. God, you look like you haven't eaten in a week – at least. Get in."

Ignoring the vehement protests that followed this declaration, Lestrade summarily shoved the stubborn young man into the car, crawled in after him, and pulled the door shut. "Covent Garden," he ordered, and proceeded to sit back and ignore the glares that quite probably could have been focused into a death ray with relative ease.

Being a member of the police force accustomed one to such things.

"Right," began Lestrade after he had ordered – Sherlock had refused to, but Lestrade intended to force whatever he got down the consultant's throat if he wouldn't comply – "What's going on?"

Sherlock looked at him askance. "I could just as easily ask you the same."

"Okay." The DI leaned forward over the table and fixed Sherlock with his best interrogation room look. "I've taken you out to lunch because, quite frankly, you look bloody awful, and I want to know why that is."

Silence.

"All right, we'll do this your way. You don't want to talk, fine. But you will answer me, is that clear?"

Sherlock glanced up at the clock on the wall above Lestrade's head and decided, in the interest of time, to cooperate this far. "Perfectly," he replied smoothly.

"Excellent. When did you last eat?"

"What day is it?"

"Wednesday."

"Friday morning."

It took notable effort for Lestrade's jaw not to drop, but he eventually managed a controlled raise if the eyebrows instead. "For god's sake, how have you not passed out yet?"

"Am I supposed to answer that?"

"No."

"Practice."

"I said not to answer."

"And I said I would answer. Next question; we're running out of time."

"Relax, Sherlock, the food isn't even here yet."

"Exactly. Next question."

"Fine. Why haven't you eaten since Friday morning?"

"Too busy."

"Doing… ?"

"Work. Experiments, cold cases, dissertations."

"You can't possibly have been doing all of that."

"Why not?"

"Because you never do – it's always one or the other, never two, and certainly never three, at the same time."

Sherlock snorted. "Yes, that would be your reasoning. 'An object in motion…'"

"Why couldn't your landlady, Mrs… um… Hudson, Mrs. Hudson, have gotten you something to eat?"

Sherlock actually winced slightly at that, and began fiddling with the table cloth. "We don't exactly… see eye to eye these days."

"How so? Or, in what respects?"

"The flat."

"What about it?"

"Everything!" Sherlock suddenly exploded. "The rent, the experiments, the paperwork, my hours, the mess, my violin, the spray paint – "

"Hang on, spray paint? What has spraypaint – "

"Don't even ask. That's what really pushed her over the edge, for some reason," he mused, suddenly calm.

"I'll bet."

"What?"

"Nothing. Look, Sherlock, you can't go on like this."

Sherlock shifted in his seat and looked away. "Yes, I can," he muttered. He was such a child sometimes.

"No, you can't. Come on, Sherlock," he cajoled, "be reasonable. We all miss John as well, but he won't be gone long, and he'd be pretty fussed to find you'd starved to death in his absence."

"Not likely," sniffed the detective airily.

"Yes, likely." Lestrade cleared his throat. "Look, I know you miss John, even if you won't acknowledge it, but you've just been moping, and it's not doing anyone any good, you least of all."

"So what do you propose I do?"

"Find another flatmate."

Sherlock snorted again. He seemed to be making quite a habit of it, thought Lestrade. "Really, Lestrade? That's what you come up with? Who but John could possibly be my flatmate?"

"Me. … Oh, stop gaping Sherlock, the food is here."