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"Get a bloody room," Lestrade muttered, the first time he started to feel that he should arrest himself for voyeurism.
He didn't mean anything by it. Not really. But something was making his collar uncomfortably tight and that was just… unprofessional.
It got worse.
oOo
"They're getting worse," Sally complained, when the industrial strength flirting threatened to raise the temperature of the entire room.
"You should do something," she prompted - but Lestrade's enquiring look gained him nothing beyond a shrug.
Helpful.
oOo
"For God's sake!" protested Anderson, as Sherlock used John to demonstrate an assailant's angle of attack, his approach distinctly 'hands on'.
"My eyes!" Anderson moaned, reeling smack into the door jamb.
Lestrade sniggered.
oOo
"Perhaps a judicious word from someone they both trust?" suggested Mycroft, sidling over at Mrs Hudson's birthday tea party. The day was warm, Sherlock was flushed, and John seemed intent on teaching him the error of his clothes.
"Sooner rather than later," Mycroft recommended, drifting away again under Lestrade's resentful gaze.
Bastard.
oOo
"Where are they?" Lestrade demanded, striding into the morgue.
"Er…" Molly blushed prettily. "They should be back soon."
Lestrade raised a brow.
Molly's gaze flicked tellingly towards the corner cupboard.
"I… um… I asked John out," she confessed, with a mischievous smile.
There were… noises from the cupboard.
Lestrade's mouth fell open. "Oh, you beauty."