Fic: Variations on a Theme (1/3)
Title: Variations on a Theme (1/3)
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, DI Lestrade
Pairings: asexual!Sherlock/John/Lestrade
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Word Count: c. 5,000 this part; c. 16,000 total
Warnings: Age Discrepancy; Mild Sexuality; Language; Incidence of Homophobia
Spoilers: for TGG
Beta: canonisrelative was very kind to look over an initial draft of this for me.
Summary: They were permutations of a set, compromised and negotiated; arranged and re-arranged until they found all the ways that fit. Variations on a theme, Sherlock sometimes liked to say.
Notes: A series of vignettes written as a Christmas gift for sidneysussex.
Part One - Adagio
----
Adagio: at ease
----
It took less than two days for Sherlock to wrap the case Lestrade’s team had been agonizing over for two weeks.
If one were to break it down, it was thirty minutes of Sherlock berating Lestrade for waiting so long to come to him; twenty hours of John watching Sherlock pace (because he was awake and, therefore, so was John); twelve hours John spent at the clinic while Sherlock sat on the couch, thinking; eight hours of running all over London; thirty heart-stopping seconds where John and Sherlock nearly plunged to their deaths, and two minutes huddled in an alley, out of sight, each clinging to the other and grateful he was alive.
This was followed by a twenty-minute reveal in front of Lestrade and his team, and, at last, the case was finally wrapped.
“Chinese?” Sherlock asked, as NSY emptied and they prepared to take their leave.
“Starved.” John put his hands on his hips, surveying the mostly-empty room. “I don’t suppose Greg will want us to bring him anything?”
Sherlock shook his head. “He doesn’t eat for eight to twelve hours after cases involving children are closed, depending on how gruesome the death was. I believe, for this one, it’s likely he won’t eat again until tomorrow morning.”
“Fantastic,” John muttered, rubbing his shoulder. He had put undue strain on it earlier today during their chase of the suspect, and it was taking longer than usual to bounce back. He moved to leave; Sherlock followed. “Well, we should probably -”
“Where do you two think you’re going?” a voice boomed from behind them. John winced and shared a look with Sherlock, stopping dead in his tracks; even the detective looked slightly guilty. Lestrade came up behind him, file in hand, looking stern. “My office, now. We need to go over the final details of the case before I can let you go.”
He nodded to one of his sergeants as he passed, the only other person working this late at the Yard. Everyone else had cleared not long ago.
Lestrade breezed into his office. Sherlock and John followed mutely, and when they were both inside he closed the door and locked it.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he asked in a low voice. He strode over to the desk and dropped the folder onto it before crossing his arms over his chest. The desk stood between him and the other two; a defensive move, John suspected. Lestrade’s voice always got softer the angrier he got, and he preferred to be left alone at times when his fury was too great. Barring that, he put physical objects between himself and the focus of his anger, as though it would keep him from lashing out.
“Lestrade -” Sherlock started coolly, hands clasped behind his back. Both he and John had remained standing, despite the two chairs sitting in front of Lestrade’s desk.
“No, what the bloody hell were you thinking?” he hissed, cutting Sherlock off. “That was idiotic, Sherlock, even by your standards. And what the hell, John? It wasn’t enough that he almost died; you wanted to join in the fun, too?”
“Hey, it wasn’t like that!” John snapped.
“You’re overreacting,” Sherlock put in and oh, that was the wrong thing to say.
“Overreacting?” Lestrade said in a dangerous undertone. “Overreacting? Fucking hell, Sherlock, I almost lost you today - both of you! What part of this is overreacting?”
“Greg, it’s fine -”
“It’s most certainly not,” Lestrade snarled, and John found himself taken aback at the vehemence of his words. “I’m not entirely sure why you two are so bloody eager to remove yourselves from the planet, but I can say that I really don’t appreciate it. I’d rather not be the one left behind, yeah? Jesus...”
“Greg.” John glanced over his shoulder. The lone sergeant was gone; the rest of the place was deserted and dark. He came around the side of the desk, putting a hand on Lestrade’s elbow. “We’re fine. Focus on that for a moment.”
Lestrade drew a breath; held it.
“You were lucky. Both of you.”
Sherlock finally heaved a sigh. “I fail to understand your preoccupation with events that did not happen. We could have been killed, yes, but it didn’t happen and focusing on what might have been is pointless.”
“Maybe for you,” Lestrade said softly.
“I’m sorry we worried you,” John said, moving his hand to Lestrade’s waist. He brushed a thumb along his hipbone. “So’s Sherlock.”
“I’m not -”
“You are,” John said firmly, not looking at him. “But we worry about you, too, Greg. Sherlock’s not the only one with a dangerous job.”
“Are you asking us to stop?” Sherlock put in. Lestrade snorted, and John resisted rolling his eyes. Typical Sherlock; always worried about the work.
“I’d no more ask you to stop then you would ask me.” Lestrade sighed. “I’m also as willing to give up the work as you are. I’m not - I don’t even know what I’m asking, because to request you to be more careful would be to ask you to change, and I can’t do that to you.”
He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “It’s just - I was only just starting to think I might grow old with you two. Well - older.”
“We will,” John assured. Sherlock frowned.
“John, you can’t promise that.”
“I can promise that I intend to grow old with him, yes,” John said, finally looking over his shoulder at Sherlock. “I can promise that we don’t do what we do just to spite him, or because we’re looking for a quick death. Unless there’s a reason why I shouldn’t be telling him that?”
They stared one another down, until finally Sherlock looked away, focusing on the laptop sitting on Lestrade’s desk.
“No,” he said finally. “No, no reason not to say.”
“Good.” John gave Lestrade’s hip a squeeze and dropped his hand. “Back to ours tonight?”
Lestrade hesitated a moment, and then nodded.
John pulled him in for a kiss. “It’s been a long week. You could do with some food, and some sleep.”
Lestrade snorted, and pressed his lips to John’s forehead. He then went over to Sherlock and rolled up the detective's sleeve in order to get at the nicotine patch, which he pulled from the exposed flesh and tossed in the wastepaper bin.
“I’m not the only one,” he murmured, rolling down Sherlock’s sleeve and brushing his lips along the detective's brow. Sherlock had been subsisting on caffeine and nicotine patches for the past five days; now that the case was over, he was going to crash quickly. They needed to get him back to Baker Street. “Come on, sunshine. Home.”
Sherlock fell asleep in the cab, head resting on Lestrade’s shoulder. John sat across from them, his knees knocking against Lestrade’s, and under the cover of darkness they clasped hands. They couldn’t do this in public, not normally, but the nighttime was different. It made them bold; made it easier to get away with things they could not do in broad daylight.
----
“What’s Cambodia’s capital?” John asked as he tapped a pen absently against his teeth. He was sitting on the bed, legs outstretched before him and crossed at the ankles, leaning against the headboard. Lestrade was stretched out next to him, flat on his stomach, Sherlock straddling the backs of his thighs.
“How many - ah!” Lestrade broke off with a hiss as the detective’s fingers worked at a knot of tension in his back, melting it with his strong musician’s fingers.
“Phnom Penh,” Sherlock supplied, and Lestrade rolled his eyes.
“Doesn’t know the Earth goes ‘round the sun, but he knows the bleedin’ capital of Cambodia,” he griped.
“Not my issue that you only keep irrelevant data in your brain,” Sherlock said, frowning in concentration as he found a particularly tight knot of muscle just at the base of Lestrade’s neck.
“And just what part of Phnom Penh is relevant to your life?”
“It was relevant just now, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, for -” And Lestrade rolled suddenly, tipping Sherlock off his back and clambering on top of him, grabbing his wrists and pressing them into the mattress so that he was rendered immobile. Sherlock blinked at him, momentarily stunned at suddenly finding himself staring up at the ceiling rather than down at Lestrade’s back. “C’mere, you.”
Lestrade dipped his head and captured Sherlock’s lips in a slow kiss. He parted his lips; Sherlock’s followed automatically, and he brushed the tip of his tongue across Sherlock’s before drawing away. He placed a kiss over both Sherlock's eyelids, and then straightened.
“You’re insufferable, you know that?” Lestrade said, moving off of Sherlock’s hips and squeezing between him and John, who was still occupied with the crossword, though there was a smile playing on his lips.
“I’ve been so informed,” Sherlock said, a tad breathless, and he worked his way into a sitting position. Lestrade chuckled and kissed his shoulder. John filled in the last of the puzzle and squeezed Lestrade’s knee.
----
Lestrade woke one night to a hand on his chest, eyes flying open and consciousness returning immediately. It was a seamless shift from the images of the nightmare to the waking world, and he knew in an instant that what felt like hours of terror had only been moments, and imaginary ones at that.
It didn’t keep his heart from knocking wildly against his chest, nor did it prevent the thin sheen of cold sweat that had broken out across his forehead. Those were all too real.
He turned his head to look at Sherlock and gave him a shaky nod of thanks. John, on his other side, was still very much dead to the world. His sleeping patterns were unpredictable at best. Some nights all it took was a whisper of wind to wake him; other times, the equivalent of an army tank rolling down the street wouldn’t even make him twitch.
“All right?” Sherlock asked in an undertone. Lestrade nodded.
“Am now. Thanks.”
“It was the pool.”
Lestrade suppressed a sigh; no use denying it.
“Yeah.”
If one were to ask Sherlock, he’d have said that the turning point for the three of them was the Dower case last March, when John had taken a nasty dive into the Thames while in pursuit of a suspect. Sherlock had doubled back with only half a second of hesitation - and he still felt a pang of remorse over that half-second, which he was unaccustomed to feeling - and gone after him, Lestrade on his heels. They spent the rest of the afternoon holed up in Baker Street, trying to get up the doctor’s dangerously-low body temperature because John abhorred hospitals nearly as much as his flatmate.
They’d never caught the suspect; the case was still open.
Sherlock hadn’t minded, which was odd.
Neither had Lestrade, which was even stranger.
By the end of that week, they had torn asunder every barrier that had until then had defined their relationships to one another - colleagues, flatmates, friends, pub-night acquaintances - and started to build something new. Something that, over a year later, was still going strong - even if they didn’t quite know what to call it.
But if one were to ask John, he’d have said that it started much earlier, back when Moriarty was just becoming a threat, though before they had fully comprehended just how much of a danger he was. There had been a moment in Lestrade’s office, when the pink phone rang and Sherlock stepped out to answer it, that John’s eyes had locked with the Detective Inspector’s. Lestrade had been unguarded in that brief second, and the waves of emotion that washed across his face - terror, concern, a fierce protectiveness - had mirrored John’s own feelings toward his mysterious new flatmate.
John knew then that he’d found an ally, one very like himself - willing to follow Sherlock blindly and without question; willing to stand at his side even if they didn’t quite know why they were doing it, only that it needed to be done.
And if one were to ask Lestrade, he’d have said that the catalyst for it all was the pool. He’d been careless that April night, plunging into the fire and rubble before the proper rescue teams had arrived, digging alongside the trained professionals, hearing nothing but the blood pounding in his ears. He’d been so focused on finding John and Sherlock that he hadn’t noticed his bloodied fingers, scraped nearly to the bone, and nor had he noticed the wobbling remains of the building that threatened to come down around their heads. There was only Sherlock and John, John and Sherlock, and he needed to find them.
It frightened him to think what he might have done had he not found either of them alive.
They’d both had to go to hospital (Sherlock for much longer than John, in the end), and Mycroft Holmes had arranged for them to be in the same room. And when they’d finally awoken, it had been to find Lestrade seated between their beds, each of his broad hands covering one of theirs.
Neither Sherlock nor John had pulled away.
Lestrade’s dreams were still dotted with the remains of that night, even over a year and a half later. Images of fire and blood and the too-still forms of his partners haunted him, though at the time Sherlock had been a maybe-friend and questionable colleague, and John had been an acquaintance at best. But Lestrade now viewed that night at the pool through the filter of his current relationship to the two men - for how could he not? - and it sickened him to think that for the slightest wrong placement of a beam, or if Sherlock had landed just two inches to his left, or if John dived to the left instead of the right...
Cool fingertips gripped his wrist, and Lestrade was snapped from his musings. He turned his head to look at Sherlock, two glittering points of light in the dark of the room.
“Stop,” Sherlock commanded. Lestrade nodded.
“Trying,” he rasped, his voice still heavy with sleep.
“Try harder,” Sherlock said, and Lestrade gave a sad smile even though he knew the man couldn’t see. And then gangly limbs looped through his and Sherlock pressed up against his side, his warm breath filling Lestrade’s ear and his fingertips slipping under Lestrade’s shirt to stroke the patch of skin just under his ribcage.
“Okay,” he whispered, bringing his hand up to curl around Sherlock’s elbow. “I’ll try harder. Promise.”
“Good,” Sherlock murmured, and for once was asleep again before Lestrade.
But that was all right, really, because Lestrade had Sherlock’s breath skimming his cheek and his other hand sought out John’s back, feeling it expand and deflate, and those two truths were enough to keep the nightmares away for the rest of the night.
----
Sherlock and John were out on the pavement, traipsing through the slush and around the patches of ice, heading toward Angelo’s. They were going for a late lunch - or, if John was honest with himself, an early dinner.
“...and at that point, it was clear to me that the victim had been murdered by his brother,” Sherlock said, finishing a recollection of one of his earlier cases. John gave a low whistle, and made a mental note to have him repeat the story when they were back at Baker Street so that he could commit it to the blog.
“Unbelievable,” he said, and hooked his arm through Sherlock’s as they walked. “And how -”
But he didn’t get any further than that, for a passerby violently knocked shoulders with him and he stumbled into Sherlock’s solid form. At first John thought it was an accident, but he heard a huff of laughter and a muttered, “Poofs,” and then the sound of feet scurrying away before he’d had the chance to turn around.
He shook his head at the retreating figures once he’d regained his balance. Two teen boys, from the looks of the backs of their heads, and no taller than he was himself. Young ones, then, most likely.
John turned around again, deciding it wasn’t worth the pursuit; Sherlock did not. He continued to stare after the boys, even after they threw amused looks over their shoulders and then disappeared around a corner.
“Sherlock,” John said softly, tugging on his arm. “C’mon, let’s go.”
“John -”
“Ignore it. It’s gonna happen. And it’s not gonna change how we - all of us - feel about one another, is it? Save your energy for the more important things.”
Sherlock turned to look at him.
“Like lunch?” he ventured, deadpan. John grinned.
“Yeah. Like lunch.”
----
There was a weary tread on the stairs, a slow plod of feet up the seventeen steps to 221b. A moment later, a key slid into place John entered the flat. He caught sight of the two men on the sofa, and gave a soft huff of breath as he shut the door.
“You’re a bloody genius, you know that?” he said in quiet amazement.
Lestrade glanced up from his book, frowning in confusion. “Sorry?”
John nodded at his flatmate, who was slouched low on the sofa, cheek pressing against Lestrade’s shoulder and arms folded tightly across his chest. “Him. I can never get him to sleep when it’s just the two of us. Dunno how you manage it.”
“Well, if I ever figure it out, I’ll let you in on the secret.” Lestrade set his book aside, careful not to jostle the sleeping Sherlock, and asked, “What time is it?”
“Nearly one.”
“Christ.” He watched John toe off his shoes and shed his jacket. “They kept you late tonight.”
“Didn’t really have much choice.” John sat down on Lestrade’s other side, and the older man wrapped an arm around his shoulders, tucking him against his side. “s’always like this right before the holidays. Parents get panicky about the sniffles because it might prevent Junior from going to grandma’s; children get excited and rowdy as each day brings them closer to Christmas. It’s inevitable.”
“Children are insufferable,” Sherlock rumbled, and Lestrade laughed.
“Welcome back to the world of the living, sunshine,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the dark curls. “You’ve been out for hours.”
“That,” Sherlock sniffed, “is hardly my fault.”
“No?”
“No,” he said. “I’m not the one with the abnormally-comfortable shoulder.”
“But you are the one who insisted on staying up for ninety-six hours straight,” John pointed out. “I’ve a feeling you’d have fallen asleep on the banister if given half the chance.”
“And speaking of sleeping...” Lestrade dislodged himself reluctantly from the two men and got to his feet. “One in the morning is far too late for an old man like me. I’m going upstairs.”
“Yeah,” John sighed, and Lestrade held out a hand, helping him to his feet. “I’ll join you. Sherlock?”
“m’fine here,” the detective said, waving them off. John and Lestrade shared a glance and then each of them grabbed Sherlock under the armpits, hauling him to his feet.
“I don’t think that was a request.”
“Evidently not,” Sherlock said, attempting to look disapproving and failing miserably. “I suppose, if you insist -”
“And we do.”
“ - then I could spare a few hours from the work and indulge you.”
“How gracious of you,” John said dryly, and led the way upstairs.
----
"Et il y en avait vingt?" Lestrade asked.
“Non, il y en avait trente. Fais attention,” Sherlock said impatiently, pacing and waving a hand in the air.
“Je pensais que tu avais dit vingt.”
“I know I said thirty. Right, John?”
John looked up at the sound of his name. “Sorry?”
Sherlock let out an explosive sigh. “Have you been listening to anything I’ve said? Honestly, John. You know how I despise repeating myself.”
“Well, you wouldn’t have to if you’d been speaking English,” John said, amused.
Lestrade lifted his gaze from his laptop screen. “Did we do it again?”
“Yeah,” John smirked.
They did that sometimes, the fluid switch from English to French. Lestrade grew up with the language spoken at home, thanks to his grandmother; Sherlock was tutored in it as a child. Usually Lestrade was good about catching it after a few words and gently steered them back to English, but sometimes they got too wrapped up in the conversation - too wrapped up in one another - and forgot there were others in the room. Other times they simply didn’t realize they’d made the switch, so natural was it to both of them.
“Christ,” Lestrade cursed softly. “Sorry, John.”
John waved off the apology, still smiling.
“It’s fine. It’s...kind of sweet, actually.”
Sherlock’s lip curled. “Sweet?”
“Yeah,” John said, chuckling now. “You two are fucking adorable sometimes.”
----
Sherlock was always Sherlock to them, except in rare instances when he was sunshine to Lestrade and git to John. Only three people alive on the planet today called John Johnny, and Lestrade was one of them. And Lestrade was always Greg to John when they weren’t on a case. To Sherlock, he was Detective Inspector or Lestrade more often than not, but in moments of high affection or half-sleep he was Greg. And Gregory only slipped past Sherlock’s lips in moments of deep pain or anguish - Lestrade had only heard it used twice, in fact, and both times in hospital, though the patient had been different each time.
Lestrade was the most likely out of all of them to use endearments, dropping sunshine and love and, once, sweetheart, which had caused Sherlock’s always-steady hand to slip in the middle of an experiment and nearly set the flat on fire. John teased him mercilessly about it until he realized that he, too, was picking up on the habit, and love started dropping right and left when it was just the three of them together. Sherlock had threatened to kick the both of them out once he realized what was happening.
But then Lestrade had snagged him about the waist and John had taken Sherlock’s face in his hands, brushing their lips together, and Sherlock had ceased his complaints almost at once.
----
John woke in the middle of the night, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Lestrade was plastered against his back, an arm wrapped around his middle; Sherlock was stretched out next to him, one arm flung above his head, fast asleep.
Christ, was it warm. John tried to negotiate his way out of the tangle of blankets without disturbing his companions, and succeeded only in pushing them past his chest. His limbs were tingling and he was tired, so tired, the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that followed a particularly difficult case, because when Sherlock skipped out on sleep so did he. Only Sherlock had trained his body - willingly - to go days on end without rest. John had yet to get used to living such a brutal life, even after two years in the detective’s company.
But there hadn’t been a case, not one that commanded his attention so much, and they had all fallen into bed before midnight, which was a rare occurrence.
He shifted position as much as he was able, but it did nothing to ease his mind. He couldn’t push aside his thoughts for long enough to drift off again, and they were inconsequential things - had he remembered to turn off the stove? Did they have enough milk to last the week? Would he need to stop at the shops after work tomorrow - or, rather, today?
He became aware of lips brushing against the back of his neck, and for a moment wondered if he was dreaming. But then the pressure increased, and the lips parted and the tip of a tongue brushed his skin as Lestrade murmured, “You all right?”
“Yeah,” he whispered. “Sorry. Just woke up.”
“s’okay.” Lestrade’s arm tightened around him. John swallowed, feeling as though someone had placed cotton in his mouth. He was being assaulted by smells from all corners - his own sweat; Sherlock’s expensive shampoo; the musk of Lestrade, a well-worn scent of ink and files and tobacco.
The lips returned to his neck, but with purpose this time. They pressed to the spot just behind his ear, teasing the patch of skin that always made his breath hitch and heart sputter in his chest. Lestrade parted his lips, stubble whispering across John’s skin, and murmured something. John, distracted by the hand that had just slipped under his waistband, didn’t hear it above the pounding of blood in his ears.
They didn’t usually do this with Sherlock in the bed. He had no interest in sex, neither in performing nor receiving, and acts like this were usually done at Lestrade’s flat - not because Sherlock minded, really, but because Lestrade and John did. But sometimes the other two were two exhausted to care, and Sherlock would roll over and leave them to it, one ear trained on the (curious, intriguing, gorgeous) noises that spilled from his partners’ lips and committing them to his hard drive. Now and again he was content to let one of them rock into his hand, cataloging the look on John’s face (lips parted, breaths stunted, eyes shut) or memorizing the taste of Lestrade’s skin while John’s deft fingers worked him open.
He enjoyed kissing, though (something about endorphins or eurphoria - John hadn’t paid much attention to his reasons), and now a mouth pressed to John’s as Lestrade’s hand brought him to completion. Sherlock swallowed John’s groan, kissing him through his release, and when John had regained his breath he reached around for Lestrade, but his hand was intercepted.
“Don’t worry about it,” Lestrade whispered as Sherlock’s lips moved to his forehead. “Go to sleep, Johnny.”
And that seemed like a wonderful suggestion, so he did.
----
John was in the kitchen, searching through the cupboards for a pot that Sherlock hadn’t utilized yet for one of his experiments. He’d come home late from the surgery, and as Sherlock and Lestrade were going out tonight, dinner was something he’d have to scrounge up for himself. He didn’t mind, normally - in fact, he rather enjoyed cooking, though his meals were mediocre at best. But after the shift he’d had today - well, takeaway was sounding more and more appealing.
He heard the front door open as he shut the final cupboard in defeat.
“Hi, Greg,” John called, recognizing Lestrade’s voice as the man nearly tripped over one of Sherlock’s shoes and let out a muffled curse in retaliation. John glanced around the corner, and then raised an appreciative eyebrow at the sight that met his eyes.
“Well,” he said approvingly, “you make a pretty good case for attending the opera.”
“Oh, shut it,” Lestrade grumbled, stepping fully into the flat and shutting the door behind him.
“No, I’m serious, Greg.” He was finding it very difficult to tear his eyes away from his lover, who had shed his usual work suit for a sharper - and more flattering - evening one. “You look fantastic.”
Lestrade snorted, but offered him a smile. “Just wait’ll you see Sherlock, then. I take it you’ve never seen him in actual going-out wear?”
“No, can’t say that -” John stopped dead as the door behind Lestrade opened again, and Sherlock emerged from the stairwell. “Holy fuck.”
Lestrade laughed aloud at that, and Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow.
“Eloquent, John,” he said dryly, and handed a pair of cuff links to Lestrade. “If you would, Greg.”
“Right, yeah.” Lestrade put the cuff links through Sherlock’s sleeves while John continued to gape. He wore the suit like a second skin. It had been perfectly tailored to hug his lithe form at the hips and shoulders, and cut so as to accentuate his long legs and slim torso. “There.”
“Almost makes me wish I was going with you two,” John said, shaking his head at the striking pair his partners made.
“I’m sure Mycroft could be called upon to for an extra ticket,” Sherlock said. John shook his head, laughing.
“I did say almost.” He straightened Sherlock’s collar affectionately, and gave Lestrade a kiss. “I’ve an early shift tomorrow, so I probably won’t be up when you get back.”
“We’ll be quiet,” Lestrade assured him, and then turned to Sherlock. “Ready?”
Sherlock gave a brisk nod as he tugged on his coat, and they were off.
----
“Come on, Sherlock, really?” John said incredulously as the movie on the television hit a slow point and he could tear himself away for a few minutes to address his flatmate.
“It baffles me that this continues to surprise you, John,” Sherlock said irritably, flipping through the large tome that currently was occupying his attention. “You know I have no use for popular culture.”
“Yeah, well, we’re remedying this,” John said. “I can’t believe you’ve never seen Star Wars.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John relented.
“All right, yeah, I can believe it. But you really should, Sherlock. You’d enjoy it.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“I’d enjoy it.” John played the final card available to him. “I haven’t seen you for more than five minutes at a time this week; it’s been mad. C’mon. It’s two hours of your life, and then you can go back to looking at bees or whatever.”
Sherlock heaved a long-suffering sigh and set aside his book. He joined John on the sofa, propping his feet up on the low table sitting in front of it, and folded his hands in his lap. John grinned triumphantly and turned up the volume on the television once more.
“Now, you’ve missed about half an hour of it already, so let me explain...”
----
It was Wednesday morning by the time Lestrade left the Yard one frigid night, exhaustion pooling at the back of his mind and dragging him down. The drive to Baker Street was blessedly brief, and he managed to get there unharmed and still in relative control of his senses. He didn’t normally sleep over at the flat on Tuesday nights, but going back to his own place right now was unappealing at best, for no particular reason than the fact that he just wanted to fall asleep with Sherlock’s hand tucked in his own and John’s warm weight pressed to his side. One of those days, he supposed - an empty sentiment that said nothing, but apt all the same.
He trudged up the steps and let himself into 221B with his key, unsurprised to find that all the lights had been turned off except for the one in the kitchen.
“You’re up late,” he observed, glancing around the corner to see Sherlock sitting at the table, perched so that he could peer through his microscope.
“I’m always up late,” was the reply; Sherlock didn’t turn around.
“I was just trying to make conversation.” Lestrade pressed a kiss to the back of the bent head. “John in bed?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t suppose I can convince you to join us.” Lestrade placed his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, rubbing lightly. The detective straightened, passing a hand over his eyes, and eventually leaned into the touch, the back of his head pressing against Lestrade’s stomach.
“I have a case,” he said finally. “A private client.”
“So I gathered. Well, come to bed if you get the chance.” Lestrade kissed the top of Sherlock’s head and added, in an undertone, “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
He was just on the verge of sleep half an hour later, John tucked against his chest, when the door whispered open and then shut just as quietly. There was a rustling as Sherlock stepped out of his trousers, and a moment later he slid under the covers on Lestrade’s other side.
“Thank you,” Lestrade murmured, and Sherlock kissed him to sleep.
----
John leaned on the door frame, watching as Sherlock paced frantically and Lestrade scrubbed a hand through his perpetually-unkempt hair. He sipped from his mug, humming in assent or disagreement as Sherlock flung words at him, knowing that that was all the detective needed. He didn’t require input or theories; he just needed a sounding board. So John indulged him, and Lestrade kept his wild mind on track, and Sherlock puzzled his way through the case.
They could do so much together, John mused. They were capable of so much, the three of them. Nothing short of brilliance.
But that could only take place within the confines of their flat. 221b was their sanctuary, where they could be free and beautiful and right together. They didn’t exist outside of it; they couldn’t. And it pained him, because all he wanted to do was shout it out, for everyone to hear.
Here, these are my partners! I am theirs and they are mine. And we are wonderful.
“What?” Lestrade said abruptly, and John was jolted from his thoughts. He realized that he had been staring absently at the DI.
“Nothing,” he said, small smile tugging at his lips. “Just...you. Us. Bit mad, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Lestrade said, grinning. “Bit mad. Bit good, though, too.”
“I wouldn’t say that, Inspector,” Sherlock said coolly from the wall, where he was marking something on a large map of Asia they had hastily hung a few hours ago.
“Oh?”
“No.” He paused, glancing over his shoulders at the two of them, and then the facade cracked and his eyes crinkled in a smile. “I’d say great.”
----
They were permutations of a set, compromised and negotiated; arranged and re-arranged until they found all the ways that fit. Variations on a theme, Sherlock sometimes liked to say. John and Sherlock got their nights alone at Baker Street, working together or separately. Lestrade and Sherlock had their times working together on a case, because John wasn’t always available. And Lestrade, to John’s endless amusement, delighted in taking Sherlock out - to the theater, to the opera, to the kind of cultural things John wasn’t able to abide with the frequency that Lestrade did. John was able to take Lestrade out in turn - oftentimes to the pub for some drinks and a match, then back to Lestrade’s for a night together.
And the times they all had together, be it at a crime scene or 221B - those were when they had truly had a chance to shine. They were at ease with one another; slotted together as cogs in a gear. Sherlock was sharp and wild, but grounded by Lestrade’s steadying hand and John’s quiet patience. John was kept alive by Sherlock’s sheer madness, which infused his life with the very thing it had been lacking, and kept sane by Lestrade’s consistency. And Lestrade needed them both - Sherlock to teach him how to live; John to remind him that there was still good to be found in the world.
It worked with two.
But it was better with three.
----
Part Two
----
Translation of the French dialogue:
"Et il y en avait vingt?" (There were twenty of them?)
“Non, il y en avait trente. Fais attention.” (No, there were thirty. Pay attention.)
“Je pensais que tu avais dit vingt.” (I thought you said twenty.)
-Many thanks to Sidney Sussex, who helped with the translation (though at the time didn’t know what it would be used for!). Thanks also to Archea for the correction on the last line of dialogue!