A Strange and Abundant Love -- Part 1
Title: A Strange and Abundant Love
Author: CagedWriter61
Rating: PG 13
Part: 1/?
Pairing: Asexual!Sherlock/Straight!John/Straight!Lestrade
Summary: In which Sherlock, John, and Lestrade embark on a three-person nonsexual relationship, of an ambiguous nature.
Notes: I wanted to write new Sherlock fic but wasn't sure what to do. I'm not necessarily done with A Love with No Name but I have to give some thought to where I'm taking it.
In the mean time, here's a new take on nonsexual love with our dear Lestrade added into the mix.
Enjoy!
Had you pulled Gregory Lestrade aside at any point during the first fifty years of his life and told him he would one day be a third in a ménage-a-trois with two other blokes, where nobody was fucking-he would've told you to go find your sodding mind wherever it was you left it.
Yet here he is.
Lying on his back in bed, with his left arm shoved underneath his pillow and Sherlock Holmes pressed warmly against his side, while John Watson covers the other half of Sherlock's body. It's almost like Lestrade and John form a cradle for Sherlock, which would be an entirely appropriate, subconscious enactment of their roles in this triangle. One might also, from an aerial view of the men, say that Lestrade is the anchor of late middle-aged wisdom and reliability Sherlock still needs as much as when the younger man was desperately addicted to coke and Lestrade's subtle attention. John's taken over for him there, and his attention is not so subtle. Yet as John Watson once said to him, not long ago, Sherlock Holmes leads a gravely desolate life when it comes to emotional bonds. In fact, apart from the unwanted biological connection with Mycroft, John and Lestrade are all Sherlock has ever had in recent memory.
"Do you know he's asexual?" John asked him one evening four months ago, when they met for a pint. Sherlock was out of town for the weekend on some foreign case in Norway, which is the only reason why the two men in his life could risk such a meeting without being found out.
"Well, I didn't know there was a word for it, but yeah, I guess I knew."
Lestrade's intelligence may usually pale when Sherlock's in the room, but he didn't become detective inspector without good reason (whatever Sherlock may say of the police force). Before John Watson moved into Baker Street, Lestrade knew Sherlock for five years, now seven. Not a remarkably long time but long enough to notice the consulting detective never gave so much as a lingering glance at anyone, male or female. Lestrade couldn't picture Sherlock as a sexual person. He was too caught up in his own head, for one; for another, he regarded the whole of humanity with contempt, boredom, and impatience. If Sherlock ever gave any thought to an ideal companion, Lestrade was sure the standards would've impressed God himself.
John sat next to him at the bar that day, leaning close for what could only be a confidential conversation, his arm nearly touching Lestrade's on the bar top, and he pursed his lips together before attempting to start.
"I've been thinking," he said. "About Sherlock."
At this point, Lestrade had no idea where John was going with this. For a split second, he thought he'd been asked for a pint so the good doctor could confess his shocking homosexual feelings for his flat mate. (Shocking only because John Watson, in Lestrade's view, was the straightest man he'd ever met. In all senses of the word.)
In retrospect, homosexuality would have been less shocking.
John proceeded to explain to Lestrade that he did love Sherlock, the way best mates do but with more intensity. It wasn't sexual, but it was different than John had ever felt for another man. The feelings he'd had for the men in his unit in Afghanistan came close but even that wasn't the same. Whatever the hell kind of love John felt, he knew Sherlock certainly reciprocated, as much as he could. Since John knew of Sherlock's asexuality, he could be sure that Sherlock's attachment to him wasn't sexual either. John had been chewing on all this for weeks. He and Sherlock never actually talked about their relationship or their feelings for each other-it was weird enough for John to be having this conversation with Lestrade-but he'd decided Sherlock needed more than he was getting.
"You mean intimacy?" Lestrade said.
John stared at him. "Yeah. Whatever the bloody hell that means."
Lestrade half-smiled into his beer. "What are you getting at, John?"
John scratched his head and stared down into his glass. "Before I came around, you were the only person who knew him apart from work."
Lestrade snorted.
"Okay, you knew him mostly through work, but you did see him when he wasn't working for you, yeah?"
Lestrade's face slowly wilted and grew somber. "On occasion."
Those occasions were all wrapped up in Sherlock's drug habit and Lestrade's divorce, times the detective inspector would rather forget. He and Sherlock never talked about any of it either. He doubted John knew specifics.
"I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that he has some attachment to you," John said. "And you to him. I can't imagine why anyone would still put up with him so nicely after seven years."
Lestrade smiled a bit at that.
"I've given this a lot of thought," John continued. "I want to see if I can make my relationship with him-more, somehow. I don't know what exactly. I suppose I'll have to see what he says, what he wants."
"Good luck getting a real answer on that one, mate."
John shot him a knowing look, but Lestrade figured he actually had a better chance than anyone else would.
"I'm sure he could do just fine with one good relationship, but I also think he'd better off with more."
Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "I'm not sure what you're inviting me to do, Watson."
"I'm not sure either. I can't be until I talk to Sherlock. All I'm saying is, I think if we could both figure out a way to give him what he needs, it would make him really happy."
God bless John Watson, Lestrade thought. There's a man to take with you into hell.
Lestrade contemplated his proposition for a moment, before assenting, though if he were honest with himself, he was signed on before John even articulated the mission. He would do anything to help Sherlock Holmes. He knew more than John did of himself that the doctor had no idea what he was doing, but Lestrade trusted him.
"Let me know when you want me to come in," he said. "And what I'm supposed to do."
Lestrade blinks at the ceiling, Sherlock's breath warm against his collar bone. He needs to go to his own flat and get ready for work. He doesn't know why he still insists on keeping all of his things at his place; John's advised more than once for him to leave some of his clothes in the closet here, so he doesn't have to worry about going back home in the morning. Lestrade just can't seem to impose that much of himself on Baker Street yet.
He closes his eyes, sighs with resignation, and pushes himself up on one elbow. Sherlock's head slides down to his chest and he begins to stir as Lestrade gently moves away. Sherlock tilts his head back a little to look at him, hand pressed to Lestrade's side.
"Leaving?"
"Yeah. It's nearly six. Go back to sleep."
Sherlock sinks down to the bed, to the warm space Lestrade's leaving behind, and rests his head on Lestrade's pillow. John wraps his top arm and leg around Sherlock more fully, now that he has the room to do so, his faced mashed into the back of Sherlock's neck. Lestrade straightens out his clothes (the shirt and trousers he wore yesterday), picks up his belt and jacket from the chair in the corner and slips into his shoes.
He pauses in the doorway, looking at John and Sherlock curled together, the bluish light of dawn creeping in through the window curtains still leaving the room mostly dark.
He goes down the stairs as quietly as he can and lets himself out into the cool air.
When Lestrade arrives at the Yard, there's coffee and paperwork waiting for him, another typical morning. None of his team are in yet; Lestrade is always one of the first to get in and the last to leave. He likes it in the mornings, when his floor is quiet and he can ease into work mode. His habits haven't changed since he started getting more involved with Sherlock and John; nobody at the Yard suspects anything. He's not sure why he ought to care whether people notice; what is there to notice, anyway? He's not shagging the other two men. None of them are shagging.
Maybe it would be more acceptable if they were?
Whatever lies between him and Sherlock, between Sherlock and John, between the three of them-there's no word for it. They themselves don't call it anything, don't stop to analyze. None of them are too introspective, much more action-oriented, and it's easier not to talk about it. Easier for Lestrade to show up on Baker Street with take-out and his brief case and fall asleep with his arms around Sherlock and Sherlock's arms around John and let it be what it is without giving a toss for labels.
Although, he has to admit, he's spent more time doing relationship talk in the last four months than he ever did in his seven year marriage. Maybe that's why he got divorced.
He rubs at his temple as he reads the latest report, feeling more rested than he was used to a couple months ago. Sharing a bed with Sherlock and John seems to help in some way. He tends to get more sleep with them than he does alone, simply because John will usher the three of them to bed at a reasonable hour and Sherlock will usually follow unless he's strung out over a case. Lestrade had formed a routine about staying at the office as late as he possibly could, go home, make himself dinner, and pore over his current case materials or research or brush up on law until he could barely keep his eyes open. Baker Street affords him no such opportunity for mixing work with downtime. Unless he counts watching Sherlock do his thing.
It's no secret Lestrade is a workaholic. He always has been, especially since making detective sergeant several years ago. Becoming detective inspector only increased his workload and his motivation to do more. He supposes himself grateful for his habit, since he would've been much less likely to form a solid working relationship with Sherlock in the first place, had he been on the job less frequently. He finds it ironic that John, of all people, has begun to voice concern for his physical and mental well-being. The doctor's a hard-worker too, and it must not be coincidence he's become deeply involved with two men who are practically addicted to working (though Sherlock errs on the side of addiction far more than Lestrade). Lestrade supposes John has simply taken notice of the fatigue indicators and his work habits, now that they're seeing much more of each other.
Jenny, his secretary and assistant, pops her head into his door and alerts him to a call waiting on line two. She also reminds him that report on the Tottenham robbery is due by two o'clock this afternoon and he has an appointment with a witness at eleven.
Around noon, he receives a text from Sherlock.
Bored.
SH
Lestrade's mouth barely flickers. He texts back:
What am I, your entertainment service provider?
A moment later:
Yes.
SH
Lestrade shakes his head.
You aren't paying me enough.
A few minutes later, when Lestrade's biting into his sandwich, his mobile buzzes again.
I would think my presence alone is more than adequate compensation.
If not, I'll talk to John about your bill.
SH
Lestrade snorts, his mouth still full of sandwich and no one around in his office to think less of his manners. He picks up his mobile with one hand and texts with his thumb, sandwich in his other hand.
Go find out why the earth revolves around the sun and not you, or something.
And don't bollix up the kitchen. John'll have your arse.
Finally:
Curse the bloody solar system.
SH
Sherlock was skeptical, at first. John spoke to him alone, without Lestrade present, which was the smartest approach considering Sherlock was more likely to stay open emotionally with only John to consider. He may have known Lestrade longer, but he quickly developed an emotional attachment and trust in John he did not quite have with Lestrade at the time. His relationship with John was always more personal, whereas his relationship with Lestrade was a strange and delicate complexity: professional in nature, with touches of friendship and interdependence woven throughout.
John gave Lestrade a summary of the conversation afterward: he had expressed his feelings for Sherlock to the best of his vocabulary, Sherlock had been visibly touched and attempted to echo him, John gently broached the subject of altering their relationship to something more serious, Sherlock hesitated, John explained his feelings were completely nonsexual and probably not romantic either (though bugger if he could tell) and reassured Sherlock would be the one to chart their course.
"He needed to think on it," John told Lestrade, standing in the detective's office doorway. "Bit overwhelming for him, I guess. Anyway, I went to bed and left him to it. No idea if he got any sleep. Probably not."
"Definitely not," said Lestrade.
"When I woke up, he seemed to have got his head around it. He asked me if this meant I was staying with him, living with him-indefinitely."
John broke into an open-mouthed grin and bowed his head.
"Are you?"
He made eye contact with Lestrade again. "Yeah. I think I am."
"And you told him that."
"I did. It made him really happy. So-it seems like it'll be business as usual except for the way we see each other? And affection. He wants affection."
"Affection?"
"Yeah. Touching more. I'm going to let him do the asking."
Lestrade nodded, trying to picture John and Sherlock in a hug. It was a funny image, not at all natural to either of them, in his estimation.
"I mentioned you," John said. "In the morning. I didn't get too specific, I only said you cared about him and wanted to be friends some more off the job, that sort of thing."
"How'd he take it?"
"Well, I think? Christ, you never know what Sherlock's thinking."
"True. But it sounds like you're doing a good thing here, John. If he's receptive to you, that's a big deal. Keep going. See where he takes you."
John nods. "I don't know what he plans to do about you. Maybe you ought to say something first, give him a proper signal."
"Yeah, I think that's what I'm going to have to do."
At the end of the week, the detective inspector took his consulting detective to dinner at a relatively high-end restaurant, since he knew Sherlock's taste tended toward the expensive. It was a Friday night, John had a date he promised wouldn't keep him past ten, and the detectives had no pressing cases to distract them. Sherlock, who Lestrade had always known to be stoic and composed, appeared unsure of himself for the first time. Nervous, even. Lestrade was patient, indulgent like an old pro taking a new trainee for his first lesson.
They talked about work for the majority of their meal, which was no surprise. Work was the one thing they knew they had in common and in comparison to the black unknown of their relationship, it was also the safest territory to linger in for a while. Once their entrée plates were clear, Lestrade asked how things were going with John; Sherlock didn't give him any details beyond "good" and "fine" and had a hard time looking at Lestrade directly.
"You know, if this whole thing is too awkward or doesn't interest you, we don't have to pursue it," Lestrade finally said, during a pause in conversation. "I'm going along because John believes it to be in your best interest, but you get to decide what you want. I won't be offended one way or the other."
Sherlock was quiet for a moment, before he said, "I think John understands me in ways I don't understand myself. And he's right. I've been thinking about the situation ever since he presented it to me. I've been thinking of your part in it. I was surprised to hear of your interest."
Lestrade kept quiet, not wanting to jeopardize the line of communication. He watched Sherlock with his steady, dark eyes and waited for him to continue.
"What I'd like to know is why," said Sherlock, meeting Lestrade's gaze. "You're a middle aged man, heterosexual, divorced, childless, still have plenty of time and desirable attributes a new female sexual partner would appreciate. Forming some kind of unconventional, intimate relationship with me certainly doesn't prevent you from engaging sexually with women, but I wonder what value you see in going on this tangent."
"I'm not the unconventional type, you mean."
"No, you're not. Then again, John never seemed so either, but I was wrong."
The waitress stopped by with the check and Lestrade murmured a pleasant thanks.
"Well, you're right, as usual," he said to Sherlock. "It never would've occurred to me to take my relationship with you in a more personal direction. Mostly because you don't seem interested in people. If I had said something to you of my own volition, I'm sure you would've turned me to shreds with rejection." He gives Sherlock a placating smile but the consulting detective keeps his eyes lowered with a hint of chagrin. "But I've been thinking about this too, Sherlock. And I think John's on to something. It's good for you to have some intimacy in your life, some love, but hell, it's good for me too. Good for John. It's actually so bloody obvious, I'm surprised it never occurred to any of us before."
Lestrade sipped at his water.
"What are you picturing?" Sherlock said.
"You tell me," said Lestrade, reaching in his back pocket for his wallet. "John and I are here for you. We don't have any idea what the hell we're doing either, but we figured our best bet is to let you decide what you're comfortable with. It isn't about sex, obviously. I guess that means it can be whatever we want it to be."
Sherlock thought about this silently, then looked up at the older man.
"Why me?"
Lestrade found that an odd question. "Because you're the only person besides my brother and my ex-wife I have any kind of non-professional relationship with. And because if I'm going to have a significant relationship in my life that isn't based on shagging, you're the only one I know who would even consider it."
They left the restaurant for Baker Street and when they arrived, John still wasn't home. It was a quarter to ten, so they expected him shortly. Lestrade hadn't planned for anything besides dinner and that conversation, which seemed to have concluded with a tentative agreement to see where Sherlock wanted to take things.
Lestrade surveyed the sitting room, as Sherlock shed his coat and his suit jacket and scarf, hanging them up. The flat felt much more like a home than his own did; Lestrade's flat was basically an extension of his office and a place he spent as little time in as possible.
"All right, Sherlock. I'm calling it a night. I'll let you know when I have something for you."
Sherlock whirled around at this, just as Lestrade was making for the door.
"Wait."
Lestrade paused and peered over his shoulder at the other man. Sherlock stood still, almost twitchy, clearly wanting something but hesitating.
"Will you-will you hug me?"
Lestrade straightened and shut the door again. He crossed the room to stand in front of Sherlock, who shifted on his feet as if he were anticipating a punch to the face. Lestrade held steady, gave him a nod when Sherlock glanced up at his face, and lifted his arms out just enough to leave room for Sherlock to circle his own around Lestrade's torso. Sherlock, a few inches taller than Lestrade, slid easily into Lestrade's space once he mustered the courage. With his right foot in between the older man's feet, his arms hovered uncertainly in the air for a few moments before Lestrade dared to lift his right hand up to touch Sherlock's back, pressing him closer. Sherlock completed the hug, tucking his elbows against Lestrade's sides, and Lestrade positioned his own arms around Sherlock's skinny frame. He rested his chin on Sherlock's shoulder, and they stood together in a quiet, tentative embrace.
Why did he want to do this? It was the strangest decision he'd ever made. He didn't even have words to describe what he and John and Sherlock were all about to attempt with each other, yet it felt right and easy and even logical.
Lestrade spent no time contemplating his own lack of a family or emotional intimacy; he never asked himself if he felt loved or even cared for. He just did his job every day to the best of his ability. He had built his life around his career and now, at fifty, it seemed a little late to wonder if he had made a mistake in neglecting the relationship area. He was alone, and he knew it. He didn't think he was lonely, but maybe he hadn't been paying enough attention to notice.
What he knew, as he stood there with Sherlock in his arms in one of the most intimate hugs he'd ever experienced in his life, was that he was alone and Sherlock needed to feel love and John did too.
Why shouldn't they have it?
He made no move to break out of the hug, letting Sherlock decide how long he wanted it to continue. Sherlock stayed still, hands warm on Lestrade's back, until they heard John letting himself into the building and calling out for Sherlock on his way up the stairs. Sherlock stepped away from Lestrade just before John let himself into the flat.
"Oh. Lestrade, you're still here."
Lestrade nodded. "I was just on my way out."
"Are you sure? You're welcome to stay, I'm just going to make some tea."
Lestrade looked at Sherlock, who was entirely unreadable and staring at some point on the floor before the fireplace, right hand on his hip.
"Some other time," the detective inspector said.
He decided to walk part of the way home, and he found himself smiling as he did.
On his way out of the office, Lestrade gets a call from John.
"The kitchen looks like an absolute nightmare," he says. "I'm making him clean it up but there's no way we're cooking in there tonight. Want to meet us for dinner? I was thinking some good pub food."
"Yeah? I could go for a burger," says Lestrade, smiling. "Meet you there."