Hope you've enjoyed, thank you all so much for reading and commenting!

Chapter Text

July

Lestrade's month is very quiet; no serial killers or diamond smugglers in sight. It's a good thing, too, because this is the month that his wife finally packs up her things and walks out. She takes the children, the TV, and Lestrade's last desperate hopes that their vows meant something. Not that it's entirely his wife's fault - he knows that being any copper's wife is hard, and he's been so focused on his career... That D.I. badge has never been closer, or interested him less.

After a week of not allowing himself to drink in his flat, Lestrade finally decides to call in a karmic favor and texts John. He's somewhat impressed when John actually shows up and drags him out to the pub that, depressingly enough, he recognizes as "their" pub.

For several hours, John sits patiently as Lestrade talks, nodding in the right places, ordering more drinks, and ignoring the phone that Lestrade can see buzzing in his front pocket. John says, "That's just not on," and "Christ, mate," about a hundred times, and Lestrade loves him a little bit for not saying anything more meaningful.

John stays and stays, until eventually Lestrade realizes that he's run out of words. He never would have had this much to stay in the first place, but he doesn't really have anyone else to talk to. Nobody that isn't a relation, or a subordinate, or someone that he's ashamed to fall to pieces in front of.

"Thanks," he says, slurring slightly. "Really, I don't know how to..." He trails off as John frowns and shakes his head vehemently.

"Greg, do you have any idea how much you've - what you've - dammit, Greg, I owe you. Owe you a lot, actually. Way more than I'm comfortable with. If you ever need anything..." John swings out a hand and gestures at nothing. He hasn’t said one word about Sherlock all evening, and Lestrade can’t ask. Not right now. Not yet. "Just say the word. Anything."

John tries to hide the depth of the gratitude in his eyes, but Lestrade sees it anyway, and honestly it only hurts a little.

August

“Did all the freaks come out this month, or what?” John wonders, leaning back against the hood of Lestrade’s police car and rubbing at the rope burns on his wrists.

“That one stepped out of the house, didn’t he?” Donovan shoots at Sherlock, who glances at her disdainfully but doesn’t reply. John studies the two of them for a moment with slightly narrowed eyes before shrugging and looking over at Lestrade.

Lestrade coughs into his hand – he should probably cut back on the cigarettes, but there’s nobody around to tell him not to now – and shrugs. “Dunno, but that’s the fourth arrest we’ve made in two weeks. Good work, you lot.”

“See?” Sherlock says, and everyone turns to look at him. Everyone but John, which is unfortunate, because Sherlock is only looking at John. “You lot is inclusive. It includes you.”

“Not the time, Sherlock,” John says, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. He would look relaxed but for the tense lines of muscles standing out along his arms and neck.

Sherlock glances around like he’s just remembered that Lestrade and Donovan exist, and is rather annoyed by the fact. Lestrade remembers forcibly just how much of a git he really can be to anyone other than John.

To John too, actually. But at least he tries with John. You know, sometimes.

“You’re necessary, John,” Sherlock says, frowning with concentration that’s usually reserved for smashed-in windows and dead bodies.

“No, I’m not,” John says, in the reluctant tones of someone who can’t help getting drawn into a familiar argument. “I’m just along for the ride. You don’t need me to solve crimes. I have to – I’m going to have to get a job, alright, so just… leave it.”

Lestrade glances over at Donovan, who bites her lip. He isn’t sure if this is a conversation he’s invited to or not; whether or not it’s appropriate to speak up. He should have seen it coming, he supposes… He has a brief flashback to The Time Before John and suddenly decides that yes, this is definitely a conversation that he needs to participate in.

“Look, John.” Sherlock and John swing their heads around to look at him, clearly surprised by his input. “I know that Sherlock’s got his… own thing… I mean, he runs circles around the rest of us. But you really are, you know, you do… Look, you’re quite… Alright, what I’m trying to say is…”

“Please keep helping him, we’re begging you,” Donovan’s wry voice says. She flashes a smile at Lestrade, who grins back gratefully. “God knows the freak needs a handler, and it’s not like you don’t keep up, and bag a perp once in awhile. Just be another one of the thing that he made up, alright?”

“Consulting detective,” Sherlock says automatically.

John looks torn between being pleased and harassed.

“It’s nice of you two, really it is, but I’m not…”

“You are,” Lestrade cuts in, shaking his head. “Trust me. We need you. Sherlock needs you. Don’t you, Sherlock?” He stares daggers at Sherlock and hopes that for once in his life Sherlock will take the hint.

Sherlock sounds like he’s swallowing glass, but he gulps and manages to say, “I do. Need – er, you. To help.” He doesn’t look at John while he says it, but John boggles at him anyway.

Lestrade steps forward and rests a hand on John’s shoulder. John looks up at him, eyes wide and confused, and Lestrade remembers that after all John is really quite a bit younger than him – still a young man, really, trying to find his way a second time around. Lestrade smiles down at him.

“Welcome to the team, detective,” Lestrade says.

September

“Greg, you leaving any time this decade?” Donovan wanders into his office and plunks herself down on the corner of his desk with a smile. Lestrade smiles back wanly and runs a hand through his hair.

“Guess so. Sorry, had paperwork, and John texted me.”

“Oh?” Donovan cocks her head to one side. She looks young and pretty, sitting there on the edge of his desk in her tight skirt, and it makes Lestrade feel old and tired. He brushes a strand of hair off his jacket. It’s silver. Figures.

“Yeah, Sherlock had a bit of a relapse.”

“Oh.” Her eyes fly open wide and, to her credit, she looks genuinely worried. “Is John handling it okay? God, what bloody awful timing the freak has.”

Lestrad rolls his eyes in agreement. “I think he can’t help himself. And yeah actually, better than I thought he would, though he did say if Sherlock didn’t stop apologizing he was gonna need to detect himself as a murderer.”

Donovan stares into space, brow slightly furrowed. “It’s incredible. A wanker like him, and he’s got someone that cares about him that much. Doesn’t seem fair, you know?” She looks back over and her gaze softens; Lestrade catches a glimpse of pity, and maybe something else. He swallows.

“No. Suppose it doesn’t,” he says quietly.

“Still,” Donovan says thoughtfully, “can’t be easy, living like that. Everything’s life or death with those two. It’s kind of intense, you know?”

“Too right,” Lestrade says fervently. Donovan crosses her legs and smiles at him, the faintest hint of a blush rising on her dark cheeks.

“Normal people, well… we move on,” she says softly, and holds his gaze for a long moment.

Abruptly Lestrade’s brain jams and he isn’t able to do anything but stare wide-eyed. He isn’t sputtering, but only because he never opened his mouth.

Donovan’s warm brown eyes are gentle and her skirt covers her knees; Lestrade realizes that this isn’t really a pass at him. Not exactly. It’s more… letting him know that the option’s there. It’s somewhere between a friendly gesture and honest attraction, and something that feels suspiciously like gratitude wells up in the back of his throat.

“Thanks,” he says, just as softly, not trusting himself to say more. Donovan dips her head and nods, and slides off his desk.

“Later,” she says, and smiles.

October

Lestrade clambers up the stairs of Sherlock's dingy flat, really hoping the bastard is in. This case really can't wait – it’s his first case as D.I., and even if the label doesn’t mean as much to him as it used to, that doesn’t mean that he’s not grabbing the opportunity with both hands. It’s sort of the only thing he has to grab at the moment.

It occurs to him a half second before he barges in that maybe he should knock, but by then he's already pushed the unlocked door open and is standing inside.

He's taken aback by what he sees, though in retrospect he doesn't know why.

Sherlock's lanky frame is sprawled over his long sofa. John is sitting at one end of the sofa, and Sherlock's head is in John’s lap, tipped back to look at the mobile phone he's holding in one hand. John is holding what looks like some kind of academic journal above Sherlock's head with one hand, and running his fingers through Sherlock's hair with the other. Sherlock is muttering crossly, and there's a small unconscious smile on John's face.

It's a startling scene of domesticity (mainly because it's two complete nutters who are sitting there calmly on the sofa – Lestrade didn’t even know they came with an off setting), perfect in its quiet simplicity, and envy hits Lestrade hard in the gut.

He coughs, harder than he meant to. Needs to quit smoking, really this time. John whips his head around, eyes wide with surprise. Sherlock doesn't so much as twitch.

"Need your help with that sommelier case," Lestrade says, hoping his voice is friendly and even. John gives him a long look and then, without hesitating, shoves Sherlock right off his lap and onto the floor. Sherlock squawks and shoots John an irritated look, but after a glance at Lestrade's face, rolls his eyes and follows them to the door.

It shouldn't help. It's childish, really - as if pushing Sherlock away somehow negates the fact that the two of them are inexplicably happy together. But maybe Lestrade is childish too, because he can't help grinning at John on the way back down the stairs.

John grins back, Sherlock huffs behind them, and the clutching tension in his gut eases just a little bit.

November

"How exactly did I get roped into this again?" Lestrade asks, hefting a cardboard box over his shoulder and grunting. He's not sure what's in it; possibly bricks.

John gives him the wide smile of a person who can afford to be nice because they've gotten exactly what they wanted. "Because you're my friend. And you're being friendly, friend."

"Yeah, sure, but it's Sherlock's crap I'm carrying."

"That's because I own all of a bookshelf and a laptop," John says reasonably.

"Don't forget the jumpers," Donovan calls as she walks by, hoisting a garbage bag full of something soft and squishy. "John has like forty jumpers. Sheep in Scotland hear his name and tremble."

John mock glares at her. "Hey, you leave my jumpers alone. They are works of woolly art, and I pull them off."

"If only you would," Sherlock drawls, digging through his pockets. "Ah, here's the key!" He walks up to the door, bangs on it it, and bellows, "Mrs. Hudson!"

"What the hell was the point of the key?" Lestrade asks.

Sherlock tosses it behind him. John jumps instinctively, reaching out with his left hand to snatch it from the air. "Not my key," Sherlock says, and looks over his shoulder to flash a fleeting grin at John.

An elderly woman answers the door, and actually hugs Sherlock. "It's so lovely to see you boys!" she coos. "And girl," she adds, catching sight of Donovan, who smiles. "Come in, come in."

The four of them troop up a short flight of stairs and Mrs. Hudson opens the door to what must be Sherlock and John's new flat. They all stand in silence for a moment.

"How is it possible for you to have MORE stuff?!" Donovan explodes. Sherlock sniffs.

"I am a scientist," he says, his upper-crust accent coming out in a way that's too noticeable to be accidental. "I require a great deal of equipment and reference, not to mention all the necessary recordings..."

John slings an arm around Sherlock's waist and squeezes him, clearly more to shut him up than anything. "You're mad as a hatter," he says affably. "And the stuff on the tables has got to go."

Sherlock eyes him. "There's the kitchen table and the living room table. Pick one."

Lestrade shoulders his way into the room and drops his box onto a leather sofa. He looks around. "Damn sight nicer than your old place," he says.

Sherlock is looking at John when he replies, "Yes, I rather think it will be."

December

"We've got to stop meeting like this," Lestrade tells John, and bites back a grin when John cuffs him around the back of the head.

"At least you waited to bust out that line here, rather than at a crime scene," John sighs. "If you'd done it there, I would've had to add you to it."

The two of them turn and stand, shoulder to shoulder, to look over the Yard's Christmas party.

"Bit different this year," John says softly, echoing the thoughts in Lestrade's head. He nods.

"We moving forward or moving back?" It's supposed to be a joke, but it comes out all wrong, his voice too quiet and slightly strangled. Then he kicks himself – really, the final nail in the coffin of a relationship that died years ago is nothing compared to losing your whole life in one go. Army surgeon John Watson. Now consulting detective John Watson. Lestrade still doesn’t know, doesn’t know if John knows, how much of that is a choice and how much is just lack of options.

There's a considering pause, and then John says, "Forward, I think." His voice is thoughtful, and there's the bare hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. He stares out at the crowd, eyes calm and steady.

Lestrade follows his gaze and sees Sherlock on the edge of the dance floor, blinking down at Donovan, whose face is determinedly pleasant.

Lestrade feels John's gaze turn to him.

"So. Plan on manning up sometime this century?" John inquires, his smile more pronounced this time.

Lestrade narrows his eyes and takes off before he can think about what he's doing. He strides up to Donovan, completely ignores Sherlock, and squares his shoulders.

"Want to – I mean – want to dance?" Lestrade asks. Christ but she looks pretty tonight; hair pulled back in some kind of swirling bun, and wearing a tight silver dress that catches the light when she moves.

Donovan shakes her head, though she's smiling at him, too brightly for it to be a rejection.

"I don't dance," she says.

"Excellent," Lestrade grins. "Neither do I."

His triumph is short-lived; they start talking and keep talking and lean closer together and the thought I think I can do this again flits across Lestrade's mind, and then his mobile goes. Donovan's does too, and Sherlock bounds over with John in tow.

"It's the smuggling ring, I know it is," Sherlock almost beams. John looks resignedly amused, Donovan rolls her eyes, and Lestrade just fishes his car keys out of his pocket.

Twenty minutes later the four of them are hovering over several bodies, shivering slightly in their party clothes. Lestrade debates giving Donovan his jacket, and decides against it. They're on the clock now, sort of. Which means he's kind of the boss. He sighs. Maybe life will get more simple one day. Maybe life will get more simple someday.

And God help him, he’ll probably miss this when it does.

"Happy Christmas," John laughs. "This is just typical, isn't it?" He slouches against the squad car, and Lestrade props himself up alongside. He watches Donovan follow Sherlock around, reciting regulations into his ear. Sherlock ignores her completely, alternating between laser-intense examinations of objects that look completely meaningless and throwing exhilarated glances back at John.

“Typical now,” Lestrade says, remembering a warmer but far more anxious Christmas years ago. “Didn’t used to be. For him, I mean. You – well. Dunno what would've happened if you two hadn't met when you did.” He watches Sherlock flit around the crime scene with unholy glee; surreptitiously glances at John, who is smiling fondly and clearly waiting on his imminent summons. "Doesn't bear thinking about."

"Oh, I'm sure we would have found each other eventually," John says, voice light but certain. His eyes are trained on Sherlock, who spares a moment to look over at John and smile before diving elbow-deep into a bucket full of something better left unidentified.

"Yeah," Lestrade agrees after a moment. "I suppose you would've."

FIN.