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Lestrade lets him think it's longing for the same man that has brought them together, their arrangement an unusual but oddly sensible method of mutual consolation. It isn't, but the doctor would never believe otherwise. John Watson, Lestrade suspects, is the only man in London who believes it easier to love a genius than a saint.
It's not that Lestrade wasn't drawn to the late detective. He was always spellbound by the man's brilliance, held in utter thrall to that flint of a mind which sparked against everything it touched, willing to accept Holmes' casual cruelty in exchange for the way his presence brought the whole world into sharper contrast. But Watson is as much of a phenomenon, and not such a contradictory one, a man who raises by three degrees the temperature of any room he enters and whose surprisingly infrequent smiles make Lestrade feel, when he manages to provoke one, that he's accomplished something worthy in this life.
That's as much as he hopes for when he takes Watson home after a chance meeting in the winter of '92. The emptiness behind the blue eyes that were once so open frightens Lestrade. He knows that look, one of a man striding deliberately towards a six foot fall, and swears to himself that anything he can do to pull the doctor back from that precipice shall be done. But he never expects that, as soon as the door to his flat closes, Watson will launch himself at the inspector with lips that beg wordlessly for whatever relief they can get from the agony of his loneliness. Lestrade wonders momentarily whether Watson has any fear of rejection, and then realizes that, to the doctor, any outcome is a win. For a man to kiss a policeman guarantees the acquisition of either a lover or a prison term, and Lestrade isn't sure Watson cares which he gets. Either would leave the doctor better off than he is now.
Watson has half of Lestrade's clothes off before the inspector has a moment to react, and from the first brush of Watson's fingers against his prick he knows he won't have strength enough to resist, even if he were sure that would be for the best. Their instincts war against each other, each fighting for the privilege of seeing to the other's pleasure, but Lestrade is nothing if not stubborn, and he believes-- hopes-- that this is what Watson needs. As Watson squirms and groans under Lestrade's mouth, his fingers tangled painfully tight in Lestrade's hair, the doctor seems, for a few frantic seconds, to relinquish his ghosts. That's a far better reward for Lestrade than the release Watson strokes out of him some minutes later.
They begin to spend more time together after that, their evenings of comfortable companionship more frequent than those of carnal self-abandonment. Lestrade shares stories of constables and criminals, Watson of patients and publisher, and they grow to share a quietude that is almost happiness. By unspoken agreement neither of them talks about the past, until one night when the brandy flows a bit too freely. Watson falls asleep in Lestrade's bed with red eyes and a stuffy nose, his voice hoarse from the mixture of confessions and sobs which tumbled from him irrepressibly until exhaustion finally got the better of him. When Lestrade is awakened after precious little sleep, it is to the purple light of nearly-dawn and the doctor's hands and mouth on him. Lestrade wants to believe the tenderness of those early morning caresses, but he cannot imagine it possible that even Watson has room in his heart for three loves at once, and instead finds himself wondering whether it is Mary or Holmes to whom Watson makes love in his own mind. But they are dead, and I am alive, comes the sudden, vicious thought, and the accompanying need to prove it. Lestrade rolls the doctor onto his side and takes him, in a slow, deliberate way, his mouth worshiping Watson's neck and hand pulling at Watson's cock the while. Watson does not call Lestrade's name no matter how much Lestrade wishes-- nor anyone else's, no matter how much Lestrade fears-- but he does lean back to kiss Lestrade's mouth as the inspector comes inside him, and it's enough.
For the next six months, the doctor seems to be learning to live again, coming back into the world. Every once in a while, Lestrade catches a look in his direction that fans the flame of hope he tries so valiantly to snuff. And then, at two in the afternoon on the day when the lilacs are budding, the one day of the year when London smells sweet, Lestrade receives a telegram.
For ten minutes afterwards he is so literally paralyzed with shock that it's a wonder the blood keeps pumping in his veins, and then within what seems the blink of his eye he's donned hat and coat, jumped into and out of a cab, and is staring up at three digits and a letter in shining brass over a door he thought he'd never enter again.
He rings. Mrs. Hudson ushers him in, her eyes so full of joy that they cause Lestrade almost physical pain. He escapes as swiftly as he politely can, and climbs what seem like 17,000 steps. The sitting room door is closed, but Lestrade doesn't bother to knock.
The form in the armchair is horrifically familiar. One ebony eyebrow raises by a fraction of an inch. "I do not believe that I requested an afternoon visit, Lestrade. It is always a pleasure to see you, of course, but your presence at this particular moment could prove seriously damaging to my plans for the evening."
The flood of bitterness that courses through him is biblical in its proportions. At that moment Lestrade wants more than anything to break that beak of a nose, if only to prove to them both that there is something he could do which would shock the Great Detective.
"Tell me one thing. Only one, and I'll never bother you about it again." Lestrade doesn't have Holmes' presence, but he's learned a look in his years with the force, one which has kept him alive more times than he can count. He has held it back for near two decades, knowing it will only catch Holmes once, and uses it now. "Do you not understand how much you hurt him, or do you simply not care?"
Holmes cocks his head slightly, and his eyes flicker, widen, dart left, widen a bit more, meet Lestrade's. And then, God damn the man, he smiles. "Lestrade," Holmes draws out the syllables, as though simultaneously impressed and amused, "you've gone and fallen in love with my Watson."
The possessive almost breaks Lestrade, and he finds himself shaking with the effort of keeping his rage in check. "The latter, then. Thank you for the answer." He turns and heads for the door, knowing that he cannot tolerate much more provocation.
"Lestrade," Holmes begins again, but this time adamant-hard, deadly. Lestrade looks back as Holmes continues, "You know what his choice will be."
"Yes," Lestrade grinds out. "I'd have to be even dimmer than you think I am, not to. I only wish," and Lestrade's anger is replaced wholesale, in an instant, by sadness, "that I had some way to save him from himself." And then Lestrade is gone, before he has a chance to see that he has managed to provoke a reaction after all.
The incident with Moran that evening is unreal, a blur. Lestrade is The Inspector then. The persona is a help, enabling him without awkwardness to avoid Watson's eyes, but the waves of joy pouring off of the doctor are obvious even in peripheral vision. Holmes' jeers are nothing new-- comforting, in fact, in their familiarity. There is neither more nor less of spite in Holmes' teasing than of old, neither increase nor decrease in the annoyance of Lestrade's response, and both seem eager to conclude the interview as swiftly as possible. Lestrade tries not to think about why Holmes wants him out of the way. It occurs to Lestrade as their prisoner is shepherded out the door that at the moment he prefers the company of this man who has attempted murder in the past hour to that of a pair of good men whose only criminal penchant Lestrade shares. Oddest of all, he isn't sure which of them, at this moment, he wants to see less: the man who he is perilously near to despising, or the one who means more to him than he will ever be able to admit.
It's a week before Lestrade sees Watson again, late on a Thursday afternoon. After the first two nights with no more than an hour or two of sleep, Lestrade's brain ceases to function in any but the most essential ways, and he's grateful for that-- at least until Watson walks into his flat and sees the caverns beneath his eyes and gives him that look of pinched concern. The one he usually saves for Holmes, Lestrade thinks, and the irony is so delicious that it provokes a bark of laughter which concerns Watson even more. The doctor stands awkwardly just over the threshold, wearing that look, seeming not to know how to begin. Lestrade walks over to the sofa and sits, pointedly not adopting the formality of offering Watson a seat. The doctor takes the message, and joins Lestrade, sitting a little too far apart, still tongue-tied.
"You needn't to have come," Lestrade offers finally, not sure what else there is to say. "It's not as though I don't already know."
"I didn't..." Watson begins, all of a rush, and then, "I never meant to..." Everything about Watson, his voice not least of all, seems to shrink. "I'd rather it could have been different."
"It's not a matter of rather," Lestrade says quietly, though it rings like thunder between them. "I know you'd rather not love a man who has no concept of the word, who in a lifetime cannot return what you give him in a day. But you're bound to him, John, and that's all there is to it. It's your misfortune to bear." Lestrade manages to look at Watson for a moment, then turns his eyes back to the floorboards. "And mine."
Watson's voice is unsteady, his hands tightening on his own thighs. "I've been to you what he has been to me."
Lestrade understands that he doesn't mean in being loved. "No. He holds back as much from you as he is able, but you gave me everything you could. You never used me, never asked for more than I wanted to give, never broke any promise. I'll not have you thinking yourself like him." Something of anger, deeply buried however well-deserved, rings out of the last word.
There is pause, and then, "Holmes says..."
Lestrade tries not to flinch, and fails. Watson blushes, but continues, "He says you're in love with me."
Lestrade almost laughs; how like Watson, to ask him that way. "Yes."
"Yes?"
That tentative tone does what all the rest has not, and finally lets loose Lestrade's frustration and his hurt. "God in heaven, what do you want from me, John? Yes, I love you. I love your kindness and your sweetness, your caring and your generosity. I love that way with words that I can never share, and the everyday bravery which I think I do understand. I love your hands, surgeon's hands under constant inkstains, and your eyes, which show so clearly what you feel. And I love you, John Watson, plain and simple and honest and altogether, and I hope I never see you again, because God knows it'll kill me, knowing I can never call you mine."
Lestrade has never seen Watson's eyes so wide. And then something twists in his face, and suddenly he's slid back a year-and-a-half to that very look Lestrade so wished to un-teach his muscles to form. The inspector curses himself for being the one to cause its return. "I'm sorry, John, I shouldn't have..."
Watson makes a strange noise, a groan and a laugh and a shout all at once, and suddenly he's kissing Lestrade as Lestrade has never been kissed, pressing him into the sofa cushions. Watson's lips are as ravenous as on that first night, and yet this time his hunger is specific in a way it never was then, and when his lips break free he uses his last fragment of breath to moan, "Gabriel." Watson has never before used his name this way, in passion. It's almost enough to bring Lestrade off then and there.
This time, Lestrade is the one left staring. For a moment, anyway, until Watson's lips descend on his again, and the doctor's hands, trembling with emotion, fumble at his buttons. Something about the motion snaps Lestrade's brain back to reality, and he pushes Watson away. "I can't, John, please. I can't. I can't share your bed with him."
Watson's look, bizarrely, is one of shock and of dawning comprehension, and then he speaks a sentence which will forever live in Lestrade's mind. "You thought Holmes and I were sleeping together?"
Several important organs seem to explode somewhere inside Lestrade's torso. "You weren't?" And then, even more incredulously, "You aren't?" Before Watson can answer, Lestrade's memory has kicked in, and he's asking, "But you told me..."
"I do love him," Watson breaks in. "I always will, and I'll understand if you can't live with that. But it's never been physical between us. He simply isn't built that way; sex means nothing to him. And I'm glad it doesn't." Lestrade, in a daze, has allowed his eyes to wander, but Watson puts a thumb under his chin and forces Lestrade to meet his eyes. "I'm not saying it wouldn't be hard, sometimes. You were right when you said I'm bound to him, and there'd be moments when that would have to come first. But I...I'd like to try, Gabriel. You're so good to me, and I..."
Lestrade's soaring heart sinks again and he wriggles his way out of Watson's embrace. "I don't want your pity, or your gratitude, not like this..."
"No! Dammit, that's not what I mean." Watson looks near ready to tear his hair out with frustration.
"What do you mean?" Lestrade's mind, distracted and distracting, registers the importance of this moment, sitting beside John Watson on the sofa, waiting for the sentence that will augur his future.
Watson takes a deep breath. "I mean that my heart is not entirely my own, but that such of it as I have to give, I'd gladly give to you."
It's realistic as well as romantic, and means the more to Lestrade for that. He favors Watson with his cheekiest grin. "You couldn't just have said you love me?"
"I'm learning to," Watson replies, seriously. He meets Lestrade's eyes, and the fire behind the gaze takes the inspector's breath away. "And hoping to learn very much better."
Lestrade reaches out a hand and pulls Watson to him for a kiss. "And I say amen to it," Lestrade says, and kisses the doctor again. For the next few hours, they say almost nothing at all-- though Lestrade is glad to learn that his name on Watson's lips loses nothing of its sweetness with repetition.
As they lie in sated bliss, Lestrade's coverlet knotting its way around various limbs and the setting sun slanting through the blinds, Lestrade asks the one question left to ask. "John... it's odd to put it this way, I suppose, but have you thought about how we're going to get Holmes' blessing? Not that I'd be inclined to care," Watson shoots him a look, and Lestrade rolls his eyes, resisting and relenting at once, "except for the fact that he's more than capable of making your life miserable."
Watson smiles, knowing the truth when he hears it. "It's hard for even me to tell with Holmes, but if I'm not mistaken, I think we've already got it."
Lestrade almost sits up in surprise, but even his reflexes seem to acknowledge that shock is not a sufficient reason for untangling his limbs from Watson's. "What? When? How?"
Watson's laugh is as beautiful as summertime-- though Lestrade resolves to keep that thought to himself, having made quite enough of a sappy fool of himself for one afternoon. "He sent a note with me, for you. I know that he meant for me to read it; he'd have sealed it in an envelope, otherwise. It's in my coat pocket..."
The idea of a separation for the retrieval of the letter occasions a brief preparatory interlude, but eventually Watson manages to summon fortitude enough to slip out of bed for the necessary dozen seconds. The paper is pressed into Lestrade's hand, and he reads:
Lestrade--
Like you, I wish I could be a better man for his sake. Perhaps that is not much to offer, but it will have to be enough for all three of us.
--S.H.
For what seems like hours, Lestrade simply stares at this remarkable document. On the face of it, it's as Holmes says--not much to offer. But Lestrade reads the words between the words: "I was wrong;" "I am sorry;" "I'll try;" and, oddest of all, buried in that remarkable last phrase, "You are part of my life, and of Watson's, and I do not expect that to change."
Lestrade knows it isn't going to be easy, this romance built for three. There will be growing pains, at first, as they learn to adjust to each other. Lestrade doubts very much that his days of wishing to break Sherlock Holmes' nose for the things he's done--and will continue to do--to Watson will ever be completely behind him, just as Holmes' days of considering Lestrade a woefully inadequate partner for his friend may never entirely fade. But if anyone can keep the two of them in line, Lestrade thinks, gazing fondly at the naked form beside him, it's John H. Watson, the saint of Baker Street, who will always be Holmes' and who yet, miraculously, is his dear Watson, too.