Chapter Text
“So…you and Sherlock, eh? Really?”
John sighed as he looked at the inspector sitting next to him. After a trying case that had far too much government involvement, not to mention...brotherly affections, they’d agreed to a much needed night out and were now both nursing their second pint in a pub he hadn’t bothered checking the name of and the doctor knew they both looked worse for wear already. That didn’t mean he appreciated the tone of voice or the facial expression.
“First off, phrasing it like that makes it sound like it is mutual, which it’s not and you know it. Secondly, you can wipe that smirk off, Greg. This seems to be very much a pot and kettle situation.” It was hard to know whether to feel a little better or far worse for seeing the smirk slide off Lestrade’s face to be replaced with the same look of resigned hurt that John knew must be adorning his own face, so he settled for grimacing in sympathy and draining his beer.
“Yeah, I know. Being in love with the Ice Man of the British Government is not a whole lot better than being so with a self-confessed sociopath consulting detective. It’s not like I asked for it to happen, either, but then I guess you know how that feels. What a pair we make, huh?” The inspector tried to grin again, but it seemed forced and vanished as fast as it had appeared.
“Fools in love, both of us, and neither of us gay either. Utter idiots in love with the Holmes brothers, no less. I know I have a probably unhealthy craving for danger, but I never would’ve thought I’d be downright suicidal. Same again?”
“Cheers mate.”
A few hours later saw them still drinking, though they’d changed pubs. Neither was overly drunk yet, though, as they’d both stuck to beer and was able to hold their drink. Years in the army or police will do that to a person. Nevertheless, they were both sitting somewhat closer than was normal, even for a pair of friends.
“So...how do you cope with it?” Greg asked, frowning slightly over at the shorter man, seemingly intent on an answer. “I mean, it’s bad enough to know that there’s zero chance of reciprocation, never mind my whole sexual identity crisis, but at least I have the chance to get away from having it shoved in my face all the time. You, on the other hand-“
John grinned ruefully as he took another swig of beer, glancing at the silver-haired man out of the corner of his eye for a moment. “Yup. I’ve definitely got a masochistic streak, continuing to live with him. Seriously, I don’t know how I manage, really. Guess it’s my luck that for all his genius and lack of understanding of personal space, he doesn’t seem to have caught on. Or maybe he has and is sparing me.”
Lestrade’s snort came unbidden.” Sherlock Holmes sparing the feelings of someone, John? If you needed any further confirmation, that proves you’re well and truly gone.”
“Sad, but true, yes – which is much like this beer. Right, that’s it.” John stood up, banging his legs slightly against the table as he did so. “I promised Sarah I’d help out tomorrow. Thanks for listening to me, Greg. I appreciate it.”
“Hey, no problem. If you’re gonna go all teenage girl, it’s good to know someone knows exactly what you’re going through, right?”
The doctor lifted an eyebrow, clearly not entirely amused, and then plunked himself back down on the seat he’d just vacated. “Right. For that, you can buy me a whiskey. A large and proper one, too – I’m not on until the afternoon and with us having solved another case for you, you can handle calling in late.”
They grinned at each other, comrades in solving-crime – well, helping solve them, at least – mischief and pain. “You’re on, John Watson.”
“Greg?”
“Hmm?”
“Greg, stop.” John tried to push insistent hands away from the hem of his jumper. “Oi! That’s the last time I take you drinking – get off!”
“But John, it’s brilliant!” The inspector lifted his head from the other’s neck, grinning at him as they continued to walk, somewhat unsteadily. No further explanation was apparently necessary, but the man was drunk, so perhaps that wasn’t so surprising.
“You starting to grope me on the way home from the pub after spending all night complaining about being in love with Mycroft Holmes is not on my list of things I’d call brilliant.” Once again, John tried to peel Greg off of him while still walking, which wasn’t exactly an easy feat. Not made easier by the fact that Greg still wouldn’t let up touching him.
“But-!” The tone of voice was definitely going on petulant.
The former soldier rolled his eyes skywards, silently thankful that he was used to dealing with the overgrown toddler that was the world’s only consulting detective. “Come on, let’s get you home. With my clothes still on, if it’s all the same to you.”
When John had finally got them back to Greg’s flat, in the door and the inspector deposited on his sofa, said man seemed to have sobered up somewhat. He still hadn’t let up in his attempts to get at the doctor, though, but did at least seem to concentrate on getting a kiss instead of groping.
“You know, I appreciate your persistence, but honestly, I’d really appreciate you laying off. Aside from you being drunk and loss of judgement, I’m not actually gay or the type to ‘cheat’.” Good old John Watson, he thought a little self-deprecatingly, faithful to a permanent unrequited love. Or just faithful to Sherlock bloody Holmes full stop.
“No, no, no. You don’t get it.” Lestrade sat up after a few false starts and gripped at John’s arm, seemingly insistent on getting his point across.
“Obviously not, as you’ve explained absolutely squat so far. Get some sleep and I’ll see you the next time Sherlock deems a case worthy of his time.” The younger man extracted his arm, patted the other’s shoulder in sympathy and headed towards the front door.
“But us getting together would be perfect!”
Now that did stop the ex-soldier dead in his tracks on his way out the door. The expression on his face when he turned around was his almost patented-by-this-point look of incredulous-yet-resigned surprise, complete with lightly raised eyebrows, slightly widened eyes and pursed lips.
“You what?” If that was a joke, it certainly wasn’t funny.
Lestrade looked dead serious, however. “Think about it, John. How likely is it that either of us gets hold of a Holmes, romantically? Come on, we’ve spent a whole evening being maudlin about it. I’m not saying we should have sex, but a bit of emotional and physical comfort from the one person who really understands surely can’t hurt, can it?”
John had to agree, with some reluctance and a considerable amount of inebriated logic, that it somehow did make a strange kind of sense. Add to that that neither brother would try to disrupt it, as at least Sherlock always seemed to do whenever John found a girlfriend. There was one thing, though.
“Hang on. If there’s to be no sex, why the hell have you just spent the entire trip from the pub trying to grope and snog me?”
The silver fox grinned and had the audacity to bloody well wink as he shrugged, still sprawled on the sofa. “Mate, I’m...inebriated, I always get horny when plastered. Take it as a compliment; you’re a handsome bloke.”
“Not to mention available.” The doctor let himself drop down on the sofa next to the inspector.
“That as well.”
John sighed as he raked his hand through his hair. “Alright. I must be even loonier than I thought, but alright. Let’s give it a shot.”
They looked at each other and then proceeded to dissolve in laughter. The whole idea was preposterous, but then again, when you dealt with the Holmes brothers on a regular basis, you got used to preposterous.
Sherlock looked up from his microscope to pick up the conversation he’d had with John hours earlier when the man had actually been in the flat. What was in his line of vision, then, wasn’t a man dressed in comfortable jumpers with a soft, understanding and overbearing smile. Instead he had the misfortune to be met with the end of an umbrella, which in turn had an even greater annoyance at the other end, holding the handle.
“Go away, Mycroft. I’m busy,” Sherlock drawled, focusing his gaze back on the mould-samples he’d collected from the inside of several types of used shoes.
“So I see. I think, however, that you might be interested in this bit of information.” The tone was civil, even polite, as was almost always the case with Mycroft, but the face was drawn and the eyes were hard.
“I sincerely doubt it. Now piss off; your gut is blocking the light.”
“Gregory Lestrade and John Watson are sleeping together.”