Lestrade finds himself at 221B after the wedding, and again after "The Abominable Bride," when Sherlock's returned to Baker Street.

Sherlock walked in to 221B and immediately began removing his suit. He dropped his tie at the door, tossed his jacket onto the sofa. He hung his waist coat on the bathroom doorknob. He walked into his bedroom and shut the door behind him, kicking his shoes off at the foot of the bed. Not bothering with the rest of his clothing, he sat on the bed and stared at nothing at all. He was exhausted.

Lestrade knew, of course he knew, that Sherlock would leave eventually. For a while, he thought maybe the man had actually been enjoying himself, had been enjoying the people closest to him enjoy themselves, at the least. John hadn't done a runner, that was good. Mary looked lovely in her gown. They'd arrested the photographer. Sherlock had played beautifully. For a wedding involving Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, everything had gone surprisingly well actually.

But then Sherlock had gone and disappeared. Off to Baker Street probably, Lestrade figured. He'd stick around for a bit longer, have a dance with the bride and Mrs. Hudson. Afterward, he'd go off to check on him. Can't have been a very easy day; wouldn't want to talk anyway. Never does. But he'll be wanting company sooner or later. And someone to make him tea, the lazy bastard.

It was another hour before Lestrade was able to slip away. He didn't bother making any goodbyes, bride and groom would hardly notice anyway. The others were too busy enjoying themselves. They wouldn't notice either. When he arrived at Baker Street, he saw the flat was dark. He was sure he'd find Sherlock sitting in his chair, dressing gown on, plucking away at his violin. This was a danger night, if there ever was one. As he made his way up the stairs, he really began to worry. He couldn't hear a peep coming from the flat.

He had his keys in his hand, ready to unlock the door, but he found it unlocked. Pushing open the door and stepping in, he nearly slipped on the tie on the floor. He picked it up. Lestrade turned on the light and saw the jacket thrown over the sofa. He walked into the kitchen and could see Sherlock's waistcoat on the floor in front of the bathroom.

Upon opening the bedroom door, Lestrade released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Sherlock was asleep, his legs dangling at the foot of the bed. Lestrade felt sorry for him, for what he'd gone through the last couple of months. He'd done it all with little complaint, but it was obvious it was taking a toll on him.

Lestrade walked over to the bed and gently shook the younger man's shoulder. "Sherlock," he said. "Come on, let's get you into bed properly."

Sherlock rolled onto his side and pulled his legs up. "Go away, Gary," Lestrade barely heard.
He pulled down the sheets and pulled up on Sherlock's elbow, trying to get him to move up. "Into bed, I said."
Sherlock groaned but did as he was told. "Is this how you are on all your dates? It's no wonder you declined on a plus one."

Such a bastard, Greg thought. Even like this, feeling like crap no doubt. He's still an absolute berk.

"Yeah, well, it wouldn't have been much of a date if I had to drop them to come check up you," he said when Sherlock was settled. "Go to sleep."

Sherlock mumbled something, but Lestrade wasn't able to make it out. When Sherlock didn't repeat himself and his breathing had evened out, he left him to sleep.

It was early still, but Lestrade was rather knackered himself now. That short adrenaline rush was wearing off quickly. He wasn't really keen on leaving Sherlock on his own. Maybe it wasn't a danger night. Maybe they were past those now. Still, he didn't want Sherlock to wake up in a few hours and find himself alone, well and truly.

Lestrade toed off his shoes and removed his tie and jacket. He took his and Sherlock's and draped them over the arm rest of the sofa before plopping himself down for the night. Before he knew it, he'd knocked out before he knew it.

Greg took the stairs up to 221B two at a time, as usual. He didn't bother with a courtesy knock before he entered; his heart pounded too loudly, too quickly in his chest. The anger he'd been pushing down since he'd gotten word, had been overshadowed by fear and worry, was suddenly thrumming along with his quickened pulse, just below his skin.

Sherlock, he saw, was sitting in his armchair, his violin case open at this feet. His pose was a familiar one, one Lestrade had seen a hundred times, at least. Secretly, he loved catching Sherlock like this. Quiet, calm. Watching Sherlock was like watching a hummingbird – he never stopped, was always going faster than the rest of them. You couldn't help but notice the rapidity at which Sherlock existed. Likewise, Lestrade often found it just as hypnotizing to watch Sherlock like this – like catching a hummingbird at rest, being still. You have to appreciate the moment, appreciate the creature for simply being.

And Lestrade always did. He enjoyed catching Sherlock while he was like that, to see him without the worry of being met with a scathing glare or a wicked tongue. To notice all the things that you might miss if you only ever saw Sherlock going at top speed, humming about the rest of the world. Lestrade was most appreciative of Sherlock when he could see him like this, just being, existing.

Today though, he couldn't be distracted by it. He slammed the door shut behind him, but as he suspected, Sherlock didn't so much as flinch at the loud bang. Lestrade walked closer to the other man, paced twice in front of him, giving him a moment to gather his thoughts.

"REDBEARD!" Lestrade shouted. Sherlock blinked open, eyes immediately alert.
"What is it, Lestrade, what's happened?" he said, jumping to his feet.

Lestrade paused a moment. Hoping beyond hope that Sherlock would realize why he was there.

When Sherlock just stood there, blinking at him, he said, "You shot that man." His voice quiet, but like steel. "You killed him, and just hopped on a plane to God knows where to do God knows what. You were going to leave, did leave, without saying a word? I only just found out now, from your bloody brother." Lestrade's voice had risen, he was doing his best to keep his wits about him.

Sherlock turned away from him, walking over to the window and looking out at the street below.

"You left me behind again, Sherlock," Lestrade said without really meaning to. Saying the words aloud though, added weight to the action itself. Making it mean more somehow. He shook his head in disbelief. Not yet a year since returning from his death, and here they were again.
"Did my dear brother explain to you why I had to stop Magnussen?" Sherlock asked. He didn't wait for an answer. "He wasn't going to stop until he had what he wanted; he would have torn John and Mary apart to get to me, would have done whatever he could to me just to get to my brother. I couldn't allow that to happen." Sherlock turned his head to look at the other man. What he saw standing there was the same man who had stood at his grave. He turned back to the window.
"No, I didn't know any of that," Lestrade said quietly. "I'm glad everyone's safe now, but that doesn't change anything. What you did today..."

Sherlock sighed. "What I did today, was sit on a plane for twenty minutes before returning to Baker Street. It's hardly important now, what isimport-"

"Not important?" Lestrade said in disbelief. "It's important to me, you bastard; you are important to me. Am I really so insignificant that you can't see that? You couldn't bother with a text even? Bloody hell, Sherlock, you got on a plane and left, not knowing if you'd even be coming back, and couldn't be bothered to say a word to me yourself. Just like the last time."
"The 'last time,'" Sherlock air quoted. "I couldn't have said anything to you, it would have been a risk."
"You told John," Lestrade countered. "Maybe not directly, but something you said to him, the way he acted at times, like he knew. He did know."
Sherlock groaned. Lestrade was becoming overly sentimental about all of this, it was complicating matters that he had no wish to think about himself. "Oh, what does it matter, Lestrade? Honestly," he said. "It shouldn't matter at all because none of it was real."
"IT WAS REAL TO ME!" Lestrade shouted before he could stop himself, not giving a damn how pathetic it made him sound. Sherlock was looking at him now. "You died; you were gone for two years. Don't you dare make it sound so tedious. You were gone and everything about it was real for me." He took a breath. "For all of us," he added.

Sherlock tensed in realization. All of this, right here, wasn't just about Magnussen, not even just about The Fall. This was about everything, from the first day he'd walked onto Lestrade's crime scene. This was about them. He thought for a moment, about their relationship, looking for the thread that was quickly unraveling before him. Why exactly is Lestrade here, right now?

Oh, he thought. Sherlock had always known where he fit into Lestrade's life. Lestrade had always made it quite clear, without ever having to actually say, where he held Sherlock. Apparently, Lestrade was daft enough not to not have realized where he fit into his.

"You've never asked why I had to jump," he said. "John demanded to be told everything, every detail. Why didn't you?"
Lestrade shook his head. "I didn't have to," he said. "I talked to Mycroft; I filled in all the things he wasn't saying and did what you do – I deduced. You had to jump because John Watson was in danger. That was all I needed to know."
"Wrong, as usual," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "I jumped because if I hadn't, Moriarty's men, three snipers, were not only going to kill John, but Mrs. Hudson and you as well." Sherlock said the words as if they were nothing, as if they didn't mean something more.

Lestrade opened his mouth to say something, but closed it. He composed his thoughts before replying. "Not Molly?" he asked confused. "Mrs. Hudson makes sense, but a third on me? I would think, if there was a third, it would have been Molly."
Sherlock chuckled. "Our dear Doctor Hooper was my secret weapon. She was nothing more than a discarded pawn to Moriarty by that point. His mistake was mine to capitalize on, and so I did. She helped set up the illusion of the fall, but I jumped to spare the three of you."

Lestrade smiled. It really was genius, no outsider would have suspected Molly's involvement. His brow furrowed as he remembered the times he had spent with Molly, when she had been so kind to him.

"That makes sense, then," he said with a sad little laugh. "She handled it all better than I had expected. She knew, and so did Mycroft. They must think I'm a fool for checking up on them so often."
Sherlock shook his head. "I assure you, they don't. You were kind to them. Molly only ever meant to be the same for you."

Lestrade took a few moments to think about what Sherlock had just told him. He felt a pressure start to build at his temples. He'd said there were three snipers, one trained on him, and that he'd jumped to save them. He scrubbed his face with both hands, wondering how he'd gotten to this point. He sighed.

"I once said to John, that you were a great man," Lestrade started. "And that if we were very, very lucky, you might even be a good one." He looked directly at Sherlock, catching his eye before he spoke again. "And you are a good man, Sherlock Holmes. It's John Watson who made you a good man, and it was for John Watson you jumped from that building."
Sherlock made a noise of disagreement. "There were three, they were going to-"
"If there had only been two," Lestrade interrupted. "On Mrs. Hudson and myself, you'd have figured out another way. You couldn't take that risk with John involved. That's not a bad thing, Sherlock.
"As for not asking questions, I didn't think it was my place. Truth be told, I'm not sure I even want to know everything you went through while you were gone. It was never because I didn't care," he said honestly. "If you ever do want to tell me, I'll listen. You've always known you could come to me, even after everything, I hope you haven't forgotten that."

This was something they didn't talk about, Lestrade found himself struggling to find words for the things he wanted to say. His anger having dwindled away at Sherlock's confession, he felt his breath coming faster now, could feel his heart racing again for different reasons. "Knowing now, that I had even a small part in you doing what you did, in what you had to go through. It was awful enough before..."

Lestrade turned around and sat in Sherlock's chair, his back to the other man still standing by the window. "God Sherlock, I'm so sorry."

Sherlock froze, his eyes searching the room for a moment unsure of what he was expected to do. He finally settled his gaze back on the other man. He couldn't see, but Lestrade's hunched shoulders, the muffled sounds coming from behind his hand where he tried to keep quiet... Sherlock walked closer and saw that, while he was not crying, his body trembled with the need to do so. He reached his hand out unsure, and placed it on the other man's shoulder, to comfort him, but he only sobbed harder, his eyes tightly closed. He looked around again for some clue as to what he should do. This wasn't his area. He wasn't the sort to deal with things like this, this was John's area. This is what Lestrade did for him; it was Lestrade who offered comfort, reassurance. Like a brick, it hit Sherlock. For a moment he reeled back at the revelation.

Sherlock crouched next to the armchair, his hand never leaving Lestrade's shoulder, willing himself to be some sort of comfort to him. Lestrade, the brave man who was sat in front of him biting his palm to keep from crying, was grieving for the first time; for everything they had all had to endure.

When finally, he was able to quiet himself, Lestrade turned to look at Sherlock, his eyes red and glistening. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. For," he didn't know where to start. "Not believing in you from the beginning. If I had, maybe we could have done... something. For not being able to help John any more than I did." He was breathless. There was so much he was sorry for, but he couldn't form the words. "For these," he added, reaching out and nearly touching the light skin peeking from behind Sherlock's shirt. The scars; the worst of which he kept hidden from even John. "God, each one of these," Lestrade let his hand drop before he could touch the skin, unsure he could do so without breaking down once again.

"None of that matters now. There was nothing more you could have done; you did everything that you could while I was away. John is fine, as am I," Sherlock tried to reassure him.
Lestrade shook his head, "Wasn't enough though. Not for John at least, he sat here for ages, angry and alone. He watched you jump, and I was angry at him for having been the last one to see you, to talk to you. He needed you, and I couldn't fix it. I let you both down."

Sherlock took a breath, thinking, reading between the words Lestrade was saying.

"You did everything I expected of you, Detective Inspector Lestrade," he tried again. "Nothing else matters because none of it was real."
"It was though!" Lestrade said loudly, scrambling out of the chair to pace around the sitting room. Sherlock stood up, confused and unsure.
"You were dead. It seemed impossible that John and Mrs. H would ever be okay again without you. But it's like nothing's changed, like nothing they went through meant anything. You were just going to do it again. You can't, Sherlock. It's only just gotten easier." He wasn't even sure the things he was saying made sense anymore. But they were all he had.
"And you, Lestrade?" Sherlock said after a moment, giving the other man a chance to collect himself. "Were you 'okay?'"
"Yes," Lestrade answered too quickly. He sighed. "No, but I had to be, for their sake. Someone had to be there for them. I did my best."
"I knew that you would," Sherlock said. He moved closer to the other man, just one step, giving him space enough to breath, but enough to know Sherlock was there with him. "It had to be John, that day at Barts that day," he stated.

Lestrade didn't look at him, hadn't since he had stopped talking. Sherlock explained, "It had to be John because I knew, eventually, he would start to question me. I knew he would sit here, angry and alone, asking himself too many questions and realize I had lied to him.

"But you, Gregory Lestrade, are, have always been, my constant. A bit boring, maybe," he smiled softly. Lestrade was watching him now, listening. "But consistent. All those years ago, you believed me when I said I would stop the drugs. When I betrayed your trust, you stayed, ignored my protests, and took care of me. Each and every time I've betrayed your trust, you've stayed by my side. I knew, no matter what you may have thought of me at the time, that you would stand beside those I was leaving behind, and take care of them. Just as you did.

"You would have seen me jump, and you would have pieced together my reasons sooner or later, as you did, and believed that I was a good man for having done it. I couldn't have that. Any sort of sentimentality would have clouded my mind during the mission, and that could not happen. I am, as I always have been, unworthy of the faith and trust you place in me. But I want it all the same; like I want John's praise and approval.

"John, I knew, would eventually stop believing in me. You, however, always believe I'll do the right thing, no matter how many times I've given you reason to doubt. It would have hurt you too greatly to have been there, and I didn't want that. So, you see, Lestrade, it could not have been you. I had hoped to spare you both, had hoped you would both figure out the truth on your own. It seems I miscalculated just how slow you all can be, and caused more hurt than I had intended. For that, I am truly sorry."

Sherlock took two more steps closer and wrapped his arms around Lestrade. He buried his face into the other man's neck, allowing himself to be comforted as well. Verbalizing all the things he had kept to himself for so long left him feeling exhausted. But Lestrade needed him now, so he would hold on as long as he would need to. He held Lestrade close, tight, like Lestrade had held him in the parking garage that night he returned. Simply grateful to be able to do so. After a moment, Lestrade returned the embrace. His body relaxing, his breaths syncing to those of the other man. He gripped tighter, rumpling Sherlock's jacket. He felt relieved, to just stand there with Sherlock like this.

The sitting room of 221B Baker Street was quiet. More quiet than it had probably ever been. The only sounds coming from the late evening traffic on the street below. Lestrade stood stock still as they pulled apart finally. Sherlock could see he was doing his best to keep from allowing the unshed tears in his eyes to fall. He didn't step away, couldn't. He wanted Lestrade to know he was there with him.

"Every time John would say something, every bloody theory Anderson came up with, I wanted to believe them, but I couldn't. It would only make every other day you were gone that much more worse." Lestrade remembered all the times he'd dared to consider the possibility. Only to be left with an even greater emptiness.
"I know," Sherlock said. "I'm sorry."

"And today?" Lestrade asked after a long time. He was angry still, and confused, hurt, and very tired now. Mostly though, he wondered if their shared embrace, their shared confessions meant to Sherlock what they meant to him. Sherlock was still here, after all, he hadn't left. Maybe not because of him, but maybe now Sherlock realized how much he meant to him.
Sherlock sighed, his eyes never leaving Lestrade's. "Today, was pure selfishness. I didn't want to have to say goodbye and mean it." Lestrade took that as a declaration; for an understanding at the least.
Lestrade nodded. "You can't leave me behind, sunshine," he said. "Not ever again; not without a word. That's how this has to be, whatever it is."
Sherlock hesitated. "I can't promise that, you know."
"You may be a good man, Sherlock Holmes, but lie to me anyway," Lestrade shrugged. Smiling softly, sadly, but with a renewed light in his eyes. "I'd believe you all the same."

This is my first story based on Sherlock. It is not Brit-picked. If you leave a review, and I hope that you will, I hope you'll be kind enough to remember this.